


Little Blue Dragon

by saltnhalo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Blacksmith Dean Winchester, Creature Castiel, Dean/Cas Pinefest 2018, Dragon Castiel, Frottage, M/M, Mage Sam Winchester, Magic, Minor Violence, Pining, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-18 15:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14216145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo
Summary: Dean Winchester may have a reputation for being a skilled craftsman and blacksmith, but his life is just like anyone else’s. He’s over-worked and under-slept, and it’s all because of the niggling feeling in the back of his mind that tells him he’s… forgetting something. Still, he can’t let his weird dreams or errant thoughts get in the way of his work and his love for his craft. The strange feeling goes ignored.That is, until he meets a man with jewel-blue eyes and an aura of intrigue. Castiel slots into his life in a way that Dean had never thought possible, and Dean grows accustomed to the mysterious man’s visits and brilliant smiles and tales of far-away places.He’d never known he was missing a piece of himself until he met Castiel, and he thinks that Cas might feel the same way.Until Castiel disappears from Dean’s life completely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Holy shit. I can't believe it's finally time to post this. I have adored working on this fic, and I am so proud to finally be able to share it with you all. A huge thanks to the mods of Pinefest for all their hard work, and to my amazing artist [Elliot](http://http://elliot-trans-trex.tumblr.com) for their absolutely incredible [art](http://elliot-trans-trex.tumblr.com/post/172682775609/i-have-never-done-a-challenge-fest-before-and-it). Thank you to the whole PB discord squad for helping and encouraging me, to [uncelestiel](https://uncelestieldestiel.tumblr.com) for the comprehensive alpha feedback, and lastly to [Makenna (thepopeisdope)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope) for constantly having my back and absolutely shredding my fic in the beta process. I'm glad you weren't actually taking shots.
> 
> Without further ado, please enjoy!!

The sun is only barely rising across the city walls as Dean Winchester fumbles with the shutter of his stall. Despite the misleading rose-dark shadows palling across grass and uneven cobblestones, it’s already growing warm – unusual, for the weather to remain so stubbornly hot this far into fall. Dean finds himself sweating just from wrestling open the shutters that board up his market stall overnight. He wipes his brow, swears under his breath, and kicks the shutter in frustration when it won’t fold flat against the wall of his small shop.

Dean is lucky in that he lives closer to the Northern half of the continent; usually the heat doesn’t stick around after summer like it does in the South, but it’s persisted this year, for reasons that not even their city’s best scholars can determine. It’s weird, and the persistence of the hot weather at a time when it should be growing cooler is putting Dean in a perpetually bad mood.

“Wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”

The voice is familiar, wry, and far too chipper for the early hour. Dean leans his forearms on the shoulder-height wall dividing his stall from its neighbor and glares. “Not all of us like being up this goddamn early, Sam,” he grumbles, trying to stifle a yawn that will prove his point but also open himself up to further teasing.

Sam, already setting up his cauldron and arranging the items he’s planning to use or sell, simply shrugs. “Maybe you shouldn’t stay up so late working on stuff,” he points out, lighting a small fire beneath the cauldron with a flick of his wrist. Damn it, he knows Dean too well. He grins when he looks up and catches sight of Dean’s guilty expression. “I’m right, aren’t I? What was it this time?”

No amount of shuffling feet and attempts at a nonchalant expression can save Dean from Sam’s pointed look. After a few long seconds, Dean sighs and relents, crouching down beside the crate of new things he brought with him to display at the market. From its depths, he draws out a bundle of cloth and thin, protective paper. His deft craftsman’s hands unwrap it with speed and care, and soon enough he’s cradling a fist-sized creation. He holds it up so that Sam can see.

The early morning sunlight filtering through the gap between wall and roof glints off blue-tinted steel wire, shaped and coiled over and over again into the likeness of a small dragon. It sits upright, paws placed neatly under itself and neck arched in an elegant mess of fine metal strands. Its wings are half-folded against its back, the webbing created out of small pieces of transparent blue glass, and the tiny sapphire eyes seem to sparkle out at the world.

It looks curious. Inquisitive.

Sam whistles under his breath and leans forward to get a better look. “Wow, Dean. You’ll be rid of that one by the end of the day. You’re already popular; if you keep making things like that, you’ll have people tripping over themselves to buy your work.”

He’s right in his assessment; it has to be one of the most technical pieces Dean has attempted, and he’s really damn pleased with how it’s turned out.

This particular piece has been haunting Dean for a while, in little snippets; different flashes of ideas or impulses or images. They’ve been hard to wrestle into one complete idea, but it had only taken him a week or two to pin down every single clue or detail. As soon as he had, he’d known that he had to create it – perhaps then the incessant dreams and thoughts and flickers of the _something_ he can’t quite determine would stop.

So as soon as he’d finished the commissioned pieces that he’d wanted to work on yesterday, he’d bought himself a quick dinner and retreated back to his workshop. The wire had taken hours to coil and shape, and he’d spent hour after hour making adjustments on it. It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning that he was completely happy with it.

And he really is. Dean may never have seen a dragon in the flesh before, but he’s seen paintings and heard stories, and he’d like to think that the tiny metal sculpture cradled between his palms would live up to the real thing.

Last night, he’d still dreamed of blue scales and a rumble like distant thunder.

It wasn’t very effective catharsis, seeing as it hadn’t stopped the dreams, but he doesn’t regret it. Especially not when he looks down at the beautiful little creation in his hands.

“Yeah,” he agrees, absent-mindedly running his thumb down the arch of the dragon’s neck and over delicate wings. Dean’s distracted now, lost in thoughts of building and shaping and creating, of his mind’s strange occupation with… whatever the hell is going on. Sam gives him a knowing sort of look, then shakes his head and leaves his brother be. Dean moves back away from the gap when Sam begins humming to himself and sets the dragon figure on his front table so that he can start setting up.

Dean keeps his stall meticulously clean – unlike his workshop, which is a mess of organized chaos – and even though he swept it out before closing up two days ago, he grabs his broom out of the back corner and gets to work. The slow, methodical back and forth helps him empty his mind of the little blue dragon that is still haunting him, even now that it’s been created. He shakes his head and ignores it. The sweep of the broom helps him centre and prepare for the undoubtedly busy day that is to come.

By the time the stall is cleaned to his liking, the sun is just beginning to crest the nearby buildings, warming the square and framing the trees that line its periphery. Some are still clinging persistently to their summer greenery, but most have conformed to the cycle of the seasons, radiant in hues of red and gold. The concrete proof that the weather is still tapering into winter, despite the unnatural warmth, is something that Dean finds inordinately comforting. People are beginning to pass back and forth beneath the trees now, browsing the stores before the heat sets in or work calls them elsewhere.

Still, despite the fact that some people are already opening for business, Dean is in no rush. He sets out the wares that are stored in boxes at the back of his stall first, arranging them on the table and on the shelves fixed to the walls. Next, the new items that he brought with him from his workshop are set out in any gaps that he can find. The dragon is given a place beside his right elbow, and he finds his gaze drawn to it as he finally sinks down into his chair.

Even though it’s facing out into the street, Dean swears that it’s watching him as he knuckles at his eyes and forces back a yawn. The lack of sleep was worth it for such a good result – but that doesn’t stop Dean from lamenting the fact that he can’t just doze off here in his comfortable chair. Materials are expensive, therefore his works are expensive, and he can’t risk some nimble-fingered pickpocket pinching the wares that are going to put food on his table.

He distracts himself by clearing a space on the table in front of him and using his spare supplies to occupy his hands. Without the heat of his forge, there’s a limit to what he can actually make, but twisting coloured pieces of wire together gives him something to do while the street slowly fills up with market-goers. By the time Dean’s first customers stop to peruse his stall, he has a small assortment of little wire charms sitting by the dragon.

A little girl accompanying her mother blinks up at Dean with wide eyes, full of wonder and curiosity as she raises herself up onto her toes to try and see everything arranged across his table. Dean can’t help but smile at her, and when he passes over a necklace that the woman purchases, he hands the little girl a small flower, made of thin copper wire and polished to a shine. The little girl’s eyes grow impossibly wider, and she gives Dean a toothy smile before skipping away with her mother.

The rest of the day follows a similar pattern. The wire he uses to fiddle with between customers is all from his waste pile, offcuts that weren’t good for use on a piece that he wanted to be flawless enough to sell, so he doesn’t mind giving away what is essentially the sculptor’s equivalent of an idle doodle. They seem to make people happy, anyway.

The first offer on his wire-crafted dragon comes just before lunchtime. The man who approaches Dean’s stall is rather portly and followed by two servants. One is pulling a small but well-made cart, and the other cools the noble with a large fan – though it does little to help the sweat that beads on the man’s pallid brow.

The man doesn’t say hello to Dean, simply pores over the wares. Dean has to bite back a comment as he watched sweaty hands leave smudged fingerprints on his creations.

He can almost pinpoint the exact moment the man sees the blue dragon by Dean’s elbow. The noble’s small, dark eyes light up, and he jabs at it with a pudgy finger – thankfully, Dean’s table is too wide for him to actually be able to touch. “How much for the dragon?”

Dean glances between the man and the small dragon. How much should he ask for it? In comparison to other projects, creating the dragon was not overly costly or time consuming, so the price needn’t be as high as he has charged for some of his items in the past. With the way the man is eyeing it, however, compounded by the finery of his robes and the accompaniment of his servants… Dean could probably get away with asking a higher price. He’s definitely not above ripping off those who can afford to be ripped off, who swan around flaunting their money and dismissing those who they deem inferior. Dean could charge triple what he normally would, and the man likely wouldn’t bat an eye.

But just as Dean opens his mouth to name a price, a feeling of wrongness flares up behind his sternum. He frowns, and what comes out instead is –

“It’s not for sale.”

The man’s bushy eyebrows shoot up, and he scowls. Despite his (quite frankly, insulting) attempts to barter, Dean doesn’t budge, and the man eventually moves on. Even if Dean _were_ selling it, he wouldn’t accept such a low offer.

 _Dick_ , Dean thinks – though, the man’s rudeness aside, he’s still not sure what prompted him to say no. He made the little dragon to be sold, after all. When he looks down at it, it stares back, sapphire eyes glinting in the sunlight. _Weird_.

Most of the day passes uneventfully. Several more people ask about the dragon. Perhaps he should begin making more – though if he struggles to part with them as he is struggling to part with this one, they won’t end up being sold at all. He turns down every person who enquires after it, without fail. He still sells a good portion of his other wares, though, and amasses himself a modest collection of earnings. By the time the sun begins to set over the city gates and the marketplace begins to empty, he is content with his day’s work, and ready to start packing up his store.

He resolves to twist his scraps into one final figure before he closes up, and starts refiguring small bits of gold and copper into the body of a bumblebee. He’s got the body done, and is working on the wings when a shadow falls across his table and draws his attention.

There’s a man standing in front of his stall, tall and tanned, with dark hair and the most piercing blue eyes Dean has ever seen.

He seems to be entranced by Dean’s wares, his gaze shifting from object to object as if mesmerized by the array of gleaming metal and sparkling glass. It gives Dean a chance to observe him in these few seconds; he takes in the loose but practical clothing that accentuates broad shoulders, and the silver band encircling his right forearm that gleams even in the fading sunlight. He touches Dean’s wares with reverent fingers, turning them this way and that until they catch the light. Dean is reluctant to pull him from his reverie, but he’s also completely captivated by this man.

“Can I help you?” he asks. He makes an effort to keep his voice soft, not wanting to startle his customer.

Blue eyes lift to Dean’s, and the weight of that gaze knocks the breath from his lungs and sends sparks racing down his spine.

He doesn’t even _know_ the guy, has never seen him around, but he’s utterly, undoubtedly captivated. This man has to be one of the most beautiful people Dean has ever met – and that was before he even heard him speak.

“You have very green eyes,” the man says, his voice a deep rumble. He smiles, slow and soft, and even just the flash of white teeth is enough to make Dean dizzy. “Like peridot.”

Dean has had the pleasure of working with some beautiful gems in his profession, and certainly knows which have the best colour and shine. The comparison of his eyes to such a beautiful gem has him blushing at the tips of his ears – whoever this man is, he’s definitely chosen the right way to flatter Dean.

He can’t even figure out how to reply to that – was the guy flirting? It sounded so honest and genuine that he surely was, but Dean doesn’t get too much time to consider his reply.

“Are any of these items for sale?” the man asks in that same, rumbling tone, with the strength of mountains and earthquakes and the cool tranquility of a clear, still lake. It seems to reverberate through to Dean’s bones, though he doesn’t recall the man having spoken that loudly, and it takes him a second to reorient himself.

“I, uh – yeah,” he manages to reply – _real smooth, Dean_ – and gives the guy what he hopes is a convincing smile. “They’re all for sale, just point out which ones you’re interested in and I’ll let you know their prices.”

The man hums quietly, not concerned about Dean’s awkwardness in the slightest, and diverts his attention back to the creations lining Dean’s table – though his gaze _does_ dart back up to Dean’s face very few seconds.

If he didn’t know better, Dean would think that the man was an artist himself, with the critical way he examines each of Dean’s pieces, but the light and excitement in those crystal-blue eyes tells him differently. This man is a collector, he suspects, someone who enjoys and appreciates art. Not that Dean is saying that his art is worth being appreciated…

Except, well, it kinda is.

With the guy completely focused on Dean’s works, Dean has the chance to simply watch and appreciate the quiet excitement in the man’s expression, the reverence and care with which he handles each item he picks up and places back down. The man moves gracefully, sinuously, as though he’s aware of his body and every single small movement that it makes. If it’s this enthralling to simply watch him handle items, Dean would love to see what he’s like when he _really_ moves.

And now his thoughts are taking a dangerous turn. He clears his throat and wills away the faint blush on his cheeks, instead smiling up at the guy as he shifts two particular items to the center of the table, making his intention to purchase them clear. One is a medium-sized paperweight, swirled through the middle with oranges and reds and yellows and tiny suspended bubbles, and the other is an intricately made dagger, razor-sharp and well-weighted. One beautiful, the other practical. Dean likes this man.

And then the stranger’s gaze falls on the small wire dragon beside Dean’s elbow, and his eyes go wide. For a few seconds, it’s as if he’s frozen, his hands hovering over the table as though he’s not sure if he can reach out and touch.

Dean sways back a little, giving the man room to pick it up, and watches as careful hands cradle the small, wire dragon. For a second, man and dragon seem to stare at each other, the stranger’s thumb carefully caressing the arch of a half-folded wing.

Blue eyes meet Dean’s, filled with awe and something else that Dean can’t quite decipher.

“How much for this one?” he asks. His voice seems a little shakier than it had before. “It’s… perfect.”

“It’s yours.”

Dean doesn’t plan on saying that, not at all, and especially not when he’s turned down so many customers throughout the day. ‘It’s not for sale’ had been right on the tip of his tongue, forced by habit – so the words take him completely by surprise.

Even so, he knows that he means it.

“There’s no charge for that. It, uh…” How does Dean say this without sounding like a crazy person? There’s no real explanation for it – just something he feels deep in his gut, like an idea for an item or a weapon.

Like the idea for the little blue dragon had come to him.

“It just seems to suit you,” he finishes lamely.

The corners of the man’s lips quirk up into a tiny smile, and Dean finds himself mirroring it. It’s impossible not to, really – the stranger is hypnotizing.

“Thank you for your generosity,” says that deep, rumbling voice. Dean could drown in piercing blue eyes and the soft crinkles at their corners, and can barely look away as the man hands over some coins for the other two items. His fingers, when they touch just briefly, are warm and calloused, and Dean hears his breath hitch as though it’s happening to someone else, not him.

The touch is gone too soon, and while the man’s gaze lingers on Dean for a second or two longer than it rightfully should, it’s clear that he’s about to leave. The sun is setting, the market emptying quickly now as people return to their homes, their families. This man is only following the flow of the crowd, the pull of home, but Dean desperately doesn’t want him to leave.

He can’t explain it.

“My name is Dean,” he blurts out. The stranger freezes in his tracks, then slowly turns back to Dean. The smile has widened now, chapped lips just parted to show a flash of white teeth. He’s caught the man’s interest.

“Dean,” he says, as though trying out the name. It sounds perfect, with the way it rolls of his tongue, in his strange not-quite-accent that’s not quite the common tongue either. “It is nice to meet you, Dean. I am Castiel.”

 _Cas-tee-el._ It resonates with power.

It’s simultaneously fitting, and not. There’s something about Castiel that crackles, like the air before a storm, or the lingering thread of magic Dean can sometimes feel in Sam’s house, but different. And yet, the intense focus and wide-eyed enrapture that Dean had seen in the man’s eyes as he was surveying the created intricacies of metal and glass had been almost childlike with wonder.

This man is no normal man, though Dean can’t put his finger on what sets him apart from the rest of the milling crowd that occupies the city. Curiosity pricks at him, but he won’t pry. They’re only strangers, after all. There’s no guarantee that Castiel will even come back to his stall.

Gods, Dean hopes the strange man comes back to his stall.

“Nice to meet you too, Cas,” he replies with a grin – and the nickname rolls so easily off his tongue, despite how powerful the man's full name sounds. Dean loves it. His fingers twitch with the urge to reach across and shake Castiel’s hand, to feel his touch properly, but the man’s hands are currently occupied with his purchases, so he resists. Perhaps next time.

“I’m afraid that it is getting late,” Castiel says, and Dean feels his heart sink a little. “I must be going.” He pauses, though, as though he knows he must leave but still doesn’t want to. Dean knows the feeling – his heart beats a double-thud against his ribcage at the twinkle in Castiel’s eye, and the widening of his smile.

“Tell your brother that his hearing charms are very well-cast,” he says.

And then he’s gone, holding himself straight and tall as he strides across the marketplace. The trees ripple in the breeze as he passes by, greens and reds and oranges bowing down towards him before he disappears into the growing shadows at the edge of the square.

Dean stares after him, eyes wide and mind still reeling, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

And then he turns to the wall separating his stall from Sam’s.

“Sammy,” he snaps, his eyes narrowed, arms folded across his chest even though Sam can’t see him. He doesn’t think. Fucking spying brother. “Were you eavesdropping on me?” The walls aren’t very thick, but they generally can’t hear conversations going on in the neighbouring stall unless its occupants are shouting, which he and Castiel certainly hadn’t been.

A shaggy head pops around the edge of the wall separating his stall from Sam’s. His little brother looks decidedly guilty, and Dean scowls. “Really? Listening in on my conversations?”

“I was curious, okay?” Sam gives up all pretense of staying on his own side, and the rest of his lanky body appears along with his head. “I’m Gifted, I can feel… whatever the hell that was. I was just wondering what he’d say, is all.” Sam’s expression turns sly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a cheeky smile. “I wasn’t expecting to overhear you get all bumbling and embarrassed, though. What’d he look like? I may be an eavesdropper, but I draw the line at actually scrying for the next stall over.”

Sam is unabashed about his curiosity, but Dean can feel his cheeks turning pink. His scowl becomes more pronounced, and he swipes a hand across his face. “He was, uh, tall… dark hair, blue eyes…”

 _So_ blue. Bluer than any stone Dean has ever worked with. He doubts that even the most expensive gem would be able to match that shade. And the way his teeth had flashed in the evening light, the crows’ feet beside his eyes, the faint hint of stubble lining his jaw…

Sam clears his throat, the fucker, and Dean snaps back to reality. His little brother looks far too smug.

“I don’t see why that matters,” he snaps defensively. “He bought some stuff, and he left again. It’s not like he’s going to come back. It’s not like I _want_ him to come back.”

“Mmhm,” is all that Sam says, and there’s a knowing twinkle to his eye that Dean hates, because he is _not_ infatuated with a guy he met for all of a few minutes – and a decidedly odd one, at that. No… he’s just intrigued.

“Did you manage to figure out anything about him?” Dean asks, grasping at Sam’s mention of his Gift. Anything to pull him out of the conversational hole he seems to have dug himself into. “You said you felt something, right? Is he Gifted? He knew you’d cast a hearing charm, that’s gotta count for something.”

Annoyingly enough, his brother just shakes his head. “Not that I could tell. It was weird… there was something about him, but I couldn’t tell you what it was. I’ve never encountered anything like it before. Usually normal people don’t pick up on magic unless it directly affects them, like the cooling charms.”

And isn’t that interesting. Dean starts to pack up, his hands busy with loading his leftover wares into the storage crates at the back of his stall while his mind picks away at the puzzle that is _Castiel_.

Sam, the bastard, just stays where he is and watches Dean work – though it’s clear that he’s doing some thinking of his own. “If he comes back and you find out more, will you let me know?” Sam asks eventually. Dean just grunts, though he turns to fix a glare on Sam as his younger brother continues on, his smirk evident in his voice.

“Don’t let me know anything else you find out, though. I don’t want to know if your awkward flirting will actually get you anywhere. Too much information.”

And with that, he disappears back behind the dividing wall to finish packing up his own stall, while Dean tries to glare a hole through the wood. “I was not flirting!” he calls, a few beats too late for it to be even slightly interpreted as the truth. Sam’s cackling response is just audible from behind the wall.

 _Ugh_.

He wasn’t, though. Just making normal conversation. Totally normal conversation…

_“It just seems to suit you.”_

Fuck, okay. Maybe he’d been flirting.

Dean slams the lid of the last crate down a little harder than necessary, scowling down at the wood as though it’s offended him. If only he’d been a little less tongue-tied by the man’s beauty and innate strangeness, if only it hadn’t been so late in the day, if only, if only, if only.

It’s not like Dean can be sure that Castiel will come back.

(He really hopes he does.)

By the time Dean is completely done with packing up, he’s worked himself into a sullen mood. Sam, wisely, doesn’t press the matter any further than he already has. They grew up together, they know the lines that they shouldn’t cross if they want to keep the peace. Sam may be Gifted, but Dean is a damn good fighter, and any altercation between them isn’t going to end well. It’s always best to leave it, in these situations, and Dean can’t help the small spark of gratitude he feels as he locks up his stall, then lets Sam cast a protective spell over it like he did his own, just in case. The market is guarded, even at night, but one can’t be too careful.

Moonlight is just beginning to wash over the cobblestones as Dean finally reaches his house, a silvered counterpoint to the flickering yellow lamps that line the twisting warren of city streets. He still finds it too claustrophobic here, and even though he knows that the move was necessary, he still hopes that one day he’ll be able to return to the openness of the country to live. _One day_.

At least he still has his workshop here, attached to the rest of his house (which is, in fact, smaller than the space he has specifically allocated for work). He’s not in the mood to make anything new tonight, though. Tomorrow he’ll work on some custom orders, but right now all he wants to do is eat and go to bed.

A quick meal of bread, cheese, and an apple is enough to tide him over, since he bought a pastry or two earlier in the afternoon when the mood struck him, so it’s not long before he’s throwing open his windows to admit the cool night air into his bedroom. In the summer, it doesn’t do to let his house get too hot, and in the warm weather that still lingers around the edges of fall, Dean would rather err on the side of caution and not overheat his house. Besides, Sammy will definitely bitch at him if he has to come over and redo the cooling charms so soon because Dean wore them out with his laziness.

The cool breeze feels magnificent over his bare skin, and the sheets on his bed feel even better as he slips between them, melting into his mattress. He wouldn’t have thought it possible that a full day of manning his stall would be so much more exhausting than a day at the forge, but it’s a different type of exhaustion.

Dean sleeps easily that night. It feels cooler than it rightfully should, like one of Sam’s cooling charms without the faint, underlying buzz of the Gift.

When Dean dreams, he dreams of blue eyes and rumbling voice and _warmth_.

~

Dean has to spend the next couple of days in his workshop, creating and delivering custom orders and other things to sell at his stall, but once all his wealthy and demanding customers are satisfied, he’s able to make it back to the marketplace to reopen. There’s nothing different about the routine that he’s slowly settling into: get Sam to lift the spell, unlock the shutters, wrestle them open, clean out his stall, set up. But for some reason, he feels off. There’s a sense of anticipation lying just under his skin like the electric current carried on the air before a storm.

Nothing unusual happens that day. No strange, blue-eyed men make a sudden appearance.

Dean lingers by his window that night. He likes to think that he could look out past the city walls to the forest and mountains beyond – he can’t, of course, he’s too central and the walls are too high, but he likes to imagine. The buzz under his skin settles and lingers, and soon he’s accustomed to it. It’s simply normal, a part of his life.

Still, some things are unexplainable. Inexplicable. Dean’s hands are restless, his mind wanders. One day, while he’s manning his stall, he looks down at the pile of coloured wire scraps he’s been idly toying with to find that he’s separated all the different shades of blue and has been twisting them into a small sphere.

Another time, he’s in his workshop carving the handle of a new shortsword when, out the window, he sees a young servant being berated by his mistress. He watches as she strikes the boy, and protectiveness surges up in his gut – but a passerby on the street intervenes before he can do more than drop his work, let alone figure out how to help. The woman looks reasonably chastised when she moves on, the stress of the situation fades from Dean’s chest, and he finally looks away from his window to return to his work. When he makes to pick up the half-made hilt he had previously dropped onto the table, he sees that the surface of the wood has been charred, black smudges marring his handiwork.

He blames himself for that one, figures he was too tired to notice the imperfections in the wood when he selected it, and goes to bed.

He just can’t seem to sleep as well, these days. It’s been a week since the first (only) time Cas visited his stall, but he can’t stop thinking about him. The dreams are near-constant, fleeting glimpses of maybe-memories, flashes of sound or colour or feeling that Dean can barely remember when he wakes up.

The exhaustion permeates his life to the point where he’s sure he must be seeing things; the flowers on his kitchen table that never seem to wilt; the now-intact window in his workshop that he’s sure was cracked yesterday; the way that a deep, rough voice draws his attention in the marketplace, until he realizes it’s not… who he thought it was.

When Dean confesses some of these happenings to Sam, his brother orders him to rest, to stay at home and work on replenishing his stocks. He goes, and he sleeps better, but while he doesn’t always feel so exhausted, the dreams stay. His thoughts of _Cas_ stay.

Every day that he’s at his stall, he’s constantly hoping that Castiel will turn up, with his piercing blue eyes and his warm touch and his dark hair against tanned skin. Every day that he’s _not_ at his stall, he can’t help but fret; what if Cas turns up and Dean isn’t there?

Or, even worse, because Sam opens his stall every day: what if Dean isn’t there, but Sam _is_? Dean doesn’t trust his brother not to say something monumentally stupid or embarrassing. Like telling Castiel that Dean was flirting with him, or that he’s been watching the crowds every day, hoping for a glimpse of dark bedhead. Because he’s not. He’s just a little curious about the guy, is all. That’s it.

Dean Winchester does not _pine_.

But maybe, just maybe, he misses his strange, mysterious visitor.

~

Dean has almost given up. Usually, he’s all smiles, talking happily to his customers as he fiddles with whatever piece is holding his attention at the moment. Of late, it’s often been teeth, claws, creations in blue and bronze-orange hues, scaled patterns and swords with delicate but razor-sharp blades.

Today, he sits behind the table of his small stall, idly fashioning his offcut wires into the skeletal shape of a wing. There’s really no reason for his melancholy mood  – but there’s also no doubting that he’s been selling less and less items. He hasn’t wanted to create as much, hasn’t had people want to approach him. And if he can’t get a handle on this situation soon, he’ll be in trouble.

Dean lifts his mug of coffee to his lips and takes a long pull, until it’s nearly down to the dregs, then returns his attention to the wing. He’s still distracted, though, thoughts circling round and round in his mind, and the wire warps when Dean grips it too hard. He sighs, straightens it out, and sets it aside. There’s no point in damaging the things he’s trying to create, after all. Maybe if only he weren’t so damn tired…

He reaches for his mug, wrapping his fingers around it and lifting and—

It’s heavy.

Surprised, he pulls it closer to his face. It’s still hot and almost full, minus the liquid that he drained with his last (first?) sip. He’s sure he remembers drinking more than that.

It’s probably his tired brain playing tricks on him. Dean rubs at his eyes and takes another sip, turning his gaze outwards.

The crowds milling around in the marketplace square are colourful and lively, such a contrast to Dean’s mood. Out of habit more than anything, Dean scans through the people there, his gaze idly flicking from face to face.

It’s not like he expects to find what he’s looking for, after all. It’s been too long.

And then Dean sees him.

He’s just as tall and beautiful as he had been the first time. The fall afternoon sunlight glints off the jewelry that he wears around his throat and on his hands and arms, dazzling gleams of gold and bronze—but not even the highly polished shine can compare to the bright blue of Castiel’s eyes.

Dean’s pretty sure his mouth has fallen open in shock in the handful of moments it takes Cas to reach his stall, and he has to force it closed again to reciprocate the warm smile Cas gives him.

“Hello, Dean.”

~

It takes a few minutes for Dean to get over his shock and get Cas situated in his stall beside him – sitting on Dean’s stool, while Dean makes do with an overturned box. He can’t help the huge smile he knows is on his face, or the way that every one of Cas’s touches, accidental or not, feels like fire racing through his veins.

It’s like being a teenager again, fumbling his way shyly through a conversation. Dean shows Cas the things that he’s been making, and Castiel plays idly with the wire wing as he listens intently to Dean’s explanations. When he gets it back, the angles of the wing’s bones are a little different, having been tweaked into a position that they weren’t before. Dean runs his fingers along the wire and smiles to himself, then sets it aside.

When he looks back at Cas, he sees the man fidgeting in his seat. It doesn’t take a genius to notice the way Castiel’s gaze keeps darting down to the satchel sitting by his feet, a soft blush colouring his cheeks. 

“Whatcha got in there, Cas?” Dean asks with false casualness, leaning his back against the side of his stall and watching as Cas starts. His expression goes shy, and he reaches for the satchel, pulling it up into his lap.

“It’s, um. A gift,” Cas says, fiddling with the straps holding the satchel closed. “It took longer than I had anticipated. I apologize for my lengthy absence.”

He says it with such raw sincerity that Dean can’t help but smile and shake his head. “It’s fine, Cas. Really.” He didn’t notice the length of time _at all_. Not one bit.

Yeah, Dean’s gotten pretty good at squashing down the little voice of truth and reason at the back of his mind.

“Regardless of whether it is ‘fine’, Dean,” Castiel says with a raise of his eyebrow, “I still regret that I had to spend time away. I hope my gifts make up for it.”

Wait. “Gifts?” Dean asks, frowning over at Cas. “I thought there was one gift?”

Castiel looks like a guilty child, caught stealing sweets from the cupboard. He swallows, and won’t meet Dean’s gaze. “I… perhaps… brought more than one thing. You won’t receive them all today, however. It’s a… process.” He clears his throat awkwardly, and Dean wants to ask what the hell he’s talking about with this ‘process’, but the questions fall away when Cas reaches into the satchel and withdraws his hand.

In his palm is a single, large, green garnet, still rough-hewn from the stone it was created in, but undoubtedly one of the best quality stones Dean has ever seen, even in its unpolished and uncut stage.

He sucks in a sharp breath, forgetting the weight of Cas’s intent gaze for a second as he reaches out to take it. It feels _warm_ beneath his palm, and catches the light when it rocks to the side.

“Cas,” he breathes in shock, and his eyes are wide with shock when he lifts his gaze again. “This is beautiful.”

Castiel’s ensuing smile feels brighter and warmer than the sun.

~

The gifts don’t stop, after that. They don’t come all the time, but they certainly don’t stop. Cas comes to his store almost every day that Dean is there, and they spend their time talking or sitting in comfortable silence.

Sometimes, Dean will look over and see Castiel mesmerized by something – a shiny piece of glass, an intricately carved wooden trinket, the blade of a dagger that spills a rainbow of colours across the ground when held to the sun at a particular angle. It’s incredibly endearing – almost as much as the shy expression on his face whenever he presents Dean with a new gift.

Dean asks where – how – Cas gets these items every time, but he’s never given a satisfying answer, if he’s given any answer at all. After a while, Dean gives up, and just asks that Cas is safe when he travels with money or expensive gifts. He knows the types of people who roam the forest, after all.

Cas always promises that he’s safe, and he must be, because he turns up at Dean’s store almost every day without fail for the next few weeks.

Despite the gifts (ingots of precious metals, a beautifully crafted dagger, a tarnished relic of jewelry from a civilization long forgotten) and the ease of regular conversation, Dean is unable to glean any information from Castiel about his past. No matter how hard or how often he pushes, Cas just thins his lips and shakes his head, quickly redirecting the conversation. Sometimes, it looks like there’s a trace of some unreadable emotion (regret? fear?) in his eyes, but even then, he stays silent.

But there’s something about Castiel that draws Dean in, despite his mystery. Perhaps _because_ of his mystery.

And, while Castiel may not be forthcoming with information about his life and his past, there are a few things that Dean can figure out for himself. Cas is from down south, judging by his tan, his way of dressing, and the semi-distinguishable accent. He blushes when Dean teases him about having brought the warm weather with him to the north, which seems to be intent on staving off the cold creep of winter, but doesn’t deny his heritage, which Dean marks as a small victory. He must travel a lot, since he occasionally lets slip quick anecdotes or facts about other places, and from his historical knowledge, he must be at least somewhat educated or well-read. And then there’s his undeniable wealth, as evidenced by the gifts he brings Dean, that he is never allowed to decline however hard he tries – not that he could ever deny Cas anything, especially not with how amazing the gifts themselves are.

Dean knows Castiel – at least, somewhat. There’s only so much he can figure out without Cas’s aid, but he’ll get to the bottom of whatever Cas is keeping from him, he’s sure of it.

He’s determined to figure Cas out, no matter how long it takes.

~

Dean looks at the garnet on his workbench, and he reaches for his pen and paper.

He takes the gem and the sketch to one of the best jewelers in the city, and the next day picks up a beautifully cut, polished garnet, so similar and yet so different to the one he had left. It’s elegant and beautiful, almost glowing in the sunlight, and yet still retains some of the raw beauty that had drawn Dean to it the first time Castiel had settled it gently in his hands.

It’s exactly what Dean wanted. That day, he doesn’t see Cas, but spends all his time in his workshop, bent over his forge and sweating with exertion until finally, with the moon pooled on his workbench, he’s finished. His project had taken less effort and struggle than he’d anticipated, the metal always hot enough, always taking the right shape on the first try.

He falls into bed, exhausted and smiling, and he dreams in flashes of blue and green.

The next morning, despite his late night, he wakes early and with excitement buzzing through his veins. For the first time, he arrives at the marketplace before Sam, and turns his gaze up to the trees lining the square as he waits.

One green-brown leaf detaches from its branch and spirals lazily downwards to land at Dean’s feet.

Sam arrives not much later, and removes the protective warding on Dean’s stall with only a little bit of teasing and a few incredulous looks. It doesn’t take long at all for him to set up, his movements jerky and rushed, and then he’s sitting down on his stool, his bag tucked carefully away. Beside him sits Castiel’s stool, waiting.

It’s not until lunchtime that Cas makes an appearance. When Dean glimpses him from across the square, making his way through the crowd, it hits him just how tired Cas looks. Even from a distance, Dean can see the slump to Cas’s shoulders, the bags under his eyes.

He lights up when he sees Dean, and most of the exhaustion dissipates, but it’s still there. Dean just hadn’t seen it properly until now, had only caught glimpses over the past few days.

“Are you okay?” he asks when Cas slides in behind the table and takes a seat on his stool. The precious cargo in his bag goes forgotten. “You look… tired.”

Castiel gives him a smile, only a little dimmer than it usually is. “Yes, Dean, I’m okay. Just… didn’t sleep well. I’m sorry I was late.” The conversation turns away from there, as Cas starts talking about the street performer who had captured his attention, but the non-answer niggles at the back of Dean’s mind until, slowly, it fades.

They talk as grey-black thunder rumbles overhead, and Castiel watches the idle movement of Dean’s hands with a single-minded intensity as Dean polishes some of his jewelry items. They only break off their conversation when Dean has to talk to a customer, and even then, Dean can still feel the weight of Cas’s gaze on him.

Eventually, most of the crowd has dispersed, the clouds overhead have mostly cleared, and the burnished rays of sunset streak the marketplace in russet gold. “Where did the time go?” Dean asks on a laugh, and a panicked look crosses Castiel’s expression, as though he hadn’t realized until now. His throat bobs as he swallows, and for a second, he looks pale beneath the tan.

It’s there and gone so quickly that Dean must have imagined it.

Still, Cas seems a little quiet and introspective as he helps Dean pack up, his gaze downcast and his eyes a little unfocused. Dean tries to coax him out of whatever mood he’s fallen into, but it doesn’t work until he grabs his bag and straightens up. “Hey, Cas,” he says with a grin. “I’ve got something for you.”

Suddenly, those blue eyes are laser-focused, and he has all of Castiel’s attention.

Dean’s heart feels as though it’s in his throat as he takes a step closer to Cas and reaches into his bag. Fuck, he really hopes Cas likes this, and doesn’t take offense at how Dean used his gifts.

From the depths of his bag, he withdraws a silver and gold armband, the metal carefully woven and intertwined in strands, with the perfectly cut and polished garnet sitting in the centre. Cas draws in a sharp breath, his gaze flicking between Dean’s face and the piece of jewelry cupped in Dean’s only-slightly-trembling hands.

“Is this for me?” he asks, his voice tinged with awe, and Dean offers him a shy smile. “Yeah,” he says softly, and watches as Cas reaches out a tentative hand to trace the metalwork and the edge of the gem.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispers, then turns his hand palm up. He waits like that, perfectly still, his eyes on Dean until he realizes what Cas wants.

It feels more intimate than it should when Dean takes a half-step closer and slides the armband over Cas’s hand, up his forearm, until it settles on the curve of his bicep. It fits perfectly, and Dean meets Cas’s eyes again, their breaths mingling in the space between them.

The silence stretches out, gossamer thin and strung tight, and then… “I have something for you too, Dean,” Cas murmurs. The distance between them grows impossibly smaller as Cas reaches into the pocket of his tunic.

This time, it’s Dean’s turn to be wide-eyed and speechless. Dangling from Cas’s fingers is a necklace; a thin leather cord with a pendant attached to it. And the pendant is unlike anything that Dean has ever seen. It almost looks like…

“Is that a dragon scale? From a… a real live dragon?” It’s deep blue and shimmers iridescently in the sunset light, mounted and protected by a silver backing that holds the scale in place with tiny brackets.

The corner of Castiel’s mouth lifts in a smile. He nods, and though his gaze is earnest, it seems a little nervous, too. “It is. I’ve been told they are quite hard to come by. Do you… do you like it?”

Does he like it? Is that even a real question? “Yeah, Cas,” he breathes, reaching out to cup the scale in his hand. It’s about half the width of his palm, and it almost feels warm as he strokes his thumb over it. “It’s… it’s amazing.”

Castiel’s smile is bright and genuine and breathtaking, and Dean can’t pull his eyes away as Cas lifts his hands and loops the leather cord of the necklace over Dean’s head. The scale settles just below Dean’s clavicle.

It feels right.

They’re so close, Dean’s hands hovering awkwardly in the space between them. Castiel seems transfixed by the sight of the scale pendant against Dean’s skin, but his gaze lifts to Dean’s eyes when the man clears his throat.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Dean swallows; he wonders if he’s imagining the tension between them or if Cas feels it to. From the look in Cas’s eyes, he’s not the only one.

Dean sways forward a little, biting down on his bottom lip, and then—

“Dean!”

Sam’s face appears directly to the right of Dean’s, hovering in the air and shimmering with magic. Dean balks, rearing back in shock. The fucker looks between him and Cas, a smug grin on his face as he takes in the situation and their surprised faces and pink cheeks. “Sorry, was I interrupting something?”

“Not at all, Sam,” Dean grits out. “Now, if you could kindly fuck off.” He swipes irritably at the image, and it disappears. Having a brother who can scry is a real pain in the ass sometimes, and when he hears Sam cackle from the other side of the wall, he certainly somewhat regrets that he busted his ass in order to put Sam through his Gift education. Ungrateful little shit.

Castiel’s eyes are still focused on the air where Sam’s face was, his brows creased in a tiny little frown.

“I’m sorry about that,” Dean apologizes. “Sam’s an ass sometimes.”

The corner of Cas’s mouth ticks up in a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “He can be,” he agrees, “but you love him nonetheless. I never had siblings, so you should count yourself lucky, practical jokes and all.”

The mood has shifted; the moment is gone. Dean leans back, out of Cas’s space, and clears his throat. There’s an unreadable look in Castiel’s eyes as he comes up to rub his bicep. His fingers trace the edge of the armband. “I’m sorry,” he says, before Dean can figure out what, if anything, he could say to restore the situation – or at least make it a little less awkward. “I have to go. I’m… very tired, and it will be cold soon.”

Dean wants him to stay so badly, but it _is_ getting late. Nightfall is rapidly encroaching on the dusk light, and his lack of sleep is catching up with him almost as much as it seems to be with Cas.

They have tomorrow to talk about the _almost_ that wasn’t quite resolved. Otherwise, he wouldn’t let Cas go without saying, _doing_ something. But as it is, he smiles, and nods. “Sure, Cas.”

Castiel’s eyes are soft, and he half-lifts his hand, as though he wants to touch Dean, but stops himself. His hand falls back to his side. “I’ll see you again, Dean,” he says – then, quieter, as though almost to himself…

“I _will_.”

And then he slips out of the stall and, with one final look over his shoulder at Dean, makes his way across the darkening and empty marketplace and disappears.

Dean has the distinct feeling that something has slipped through his fingers.

“You’re an asshole, Sam,” he says wearily as he shoulders his bag and watches Sam put up the wardings on their stalls. Sam just laughs, expecting more teasing or indignant anger, but when none is forthcoming, he turns fully towards Dean, and his expression falls. “I’m sorry, man, I really didn’t realize you guys were that… close. I thought it’d be funny.” He gives Dean a mildly unimpressed look. “You’ve definitely done worse to me.”

He has, that’s for sure, but this felt… different. Dean just shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s alright, Sammy. Let’s go.”

There’s always tomorrow.

~

The next day, the leaves fall from the trees, and Castiel doesn’t show.

At first, Dean just thinks it’s a one-off. When he closes up his stall at the end of the day with no sign of Cas, he tells himself that he’ll turn up tomorrow. He’d said he’d be back, after all.

Dean tells himself that the next day, and the next, and the next. Eventually Sam tells him to go home and rest, his lips downturned in the guilty, kicked-puppy expression that Dean knows means he feels bad about interrupting the two of them on that last day. It’s not Sam’s fault – he hadn’t known that Cas wouldn’t be back, and neither had Dean – but he’s also not ready to forgive his brother, so he doesn’t say that aloud and continues to sulk.

He thinks about the moment over and over, the _not quite_ , the _what if_. They’d been so close.

Sam promises to let Dean know if Cas shows while Dean is holed up in his workshop, but there’s never any good news. It’s like Castiel has completely disappeared, and it twists like a knife in Dean’s heart. He could’ve _said_ something, told Dean that he was leaving, and _why_.

He even asks Sam to scry for Cas, after two weeks have passed and there’s been no sign of him. He sits beside his brother as Sam presses his hands to the side of his cauldron and closes his eyes, knowing that he’s picturing the dark hair and tanned skin and blue eyes that Dean is so intimately familiar with.

But it turns up nothing. Sam frowns as he pulls his hands away, his eyes troubled, and Dean wonders if it has something to do with the weird aura, the not-quite-Gift, that Sam senses around Cas.

It’s just another mystery to add to the ever-growing list.

If he could have just one question answered, though, he knows what it would be.

Why hasn’t Cas returned?

~

Dean usually doesn’t mind the winter, but this year it replaces the strange summer-fall with dizzying speed and intensity. It feels too dark and too cold this year, especially without the heat that Cas almost constantly exudes, or the glimmers of light that sparkle in his eyes whenever he smiles. Sitting with Cas by the warmth of the fire and talking, or just being in each other’s company, would have been an amazing way to pass the short, cold days. But now it’s just him and the cold glass, cold metal, cold everything. Not even Sam’s Gift can warm him properly.

He’s miserable.

And to make matters worse, he’s stuck at Sam’s house. One of the upsides to having a Gifted brother is getting charms and spellwork done for free, but now that the first heavy snow has hit the area without warning, Sam, like all his contemporaries, is flat out trying to complete all the requests for more heating spells, more fire-starters, amulets, anything people can get their hands on. Winter has hit with a vengeance this year, so the few Gifted in the city are flooded with work.

Which is good for Sam’s pockets. But it means that Dean’s own house and workshop are absolutely freezing. Sam promised he’d be able to get around to apply some heating spells tomorrow morning, but right now Dean’s only option of not freezing is to bundle himself up in furs and blankets at home, or to camp out in Sam’s warm living room while his brother is out working.

He’s begrudgingly chosen the second option – while he’s been living in seclusion for a while, he can’t really get any work done if he’s so swamped by furs that he can’t lift his arms. He could always steal a heating amulet, but they’re extremely expensive to make and he doesn’t want Sam to be down one if any of his wealthy customers ask for a personal charm. Besides, he likes to think that the necklace Cas gave him has the same effect. Sometimes it definitely _feels_ warm, and he attributes that to the scale’s origin.

So that’s how he ended up sitting on the floor of Sam’s living room with a whetstone in one hand and a pile of different swords and daggers beside him, slowly sharpening each blade into a razor-sharp edge. It’s dull work, but it’s all he can do without his workshop.

It also lets his mind wander, which is really not something Dean wants right now. Somehow, no matter how hard he tries, his thoughts always redirect themselves.

 _Jewel-blue eyes_.

 _Gravel-deep voice_.

_A laugh like embers, warm and soft and rich._

_Heat and warmth and_ fire.

The whetstone slips, and Dean curses as he realizes he’s damaged the dagger’s edge by gouging it into the blade.

He grits his teeth and shakes his head, trying to dislodge the constantly creeping thoughts that have not subsided with Castiel’s absence. Sometimes he can deal with them, force them down, but they always return, creeping back into the edges of his consciousness. There’s not much he can do about them. He’s tried.

He’s about to check the extent of the damage done by his mistake when the front door bursts open, admitting both Sam and a small avalanche. The snow melts away into nothing as it crosses the threshold, and Sam spares Dean a quick glance as he shucks off his gloves and hat and makes his way over to his work table.

“Are you up to anything important right now?” he asks as he rifles through his drawers, coming up with a handful of small drawstring pouches. Dean raises an eyebrow as he watches his little brother pull open another drawer and scowl down at it  – never a good sign.

“Not really?” It sounds like more of a question than the statement that it is, but it sounds suspiciously like Dean is going to get roped into to doing something for Sam. He’s not particularly keen on going outside right now. He checks the dagger he’s been working on one last time, winces at its new blemish, and sets it aside. “Why do you ask?”

Sam is already halfway to the door, blowing back out as quickly as he came in. He must really be swamped by customers – though that’s not a surprise, judging by how high the snowdrifts are already. At least he pauses in his hurtling trajectory to give Dean an answer, shoving his hat back down over his ears and pulling on his gloves.

“I’m almost out of supplies – do you think you could go up the mountain a little way and find some more firestone for me? I know there’s still some left in that vein. You remember where it is, right?”

Dean does, though that fact is not encouraging him to want to help his brother. Walking up the mountain and back will take up over an hour, if not two, and the knee-deep in snow isn’t going to be granting him any favors. Still, he’ll go. For Sam. Story of his life, really. Sam has never turned his back on Dean when he needed him, so Dean isn’t about to do the same, even if he’s not looking forward to the trek.

He means to deliver some kind of witty retort or at least complain about how Sam is treating him as a damn apprentice, but –

“Thanks Dean, you’re a life saver, I owe you one!”

The door slams closed behind Sam before Dean’s words can even reach the tip of his tongue.

Damn it. He didn’t even get to say _yes_ , let alone deliver his witty rejoinder. Sam’s assumption that he’d just _do it_ , without sticking around to confirm, only worsens Dean’s already foul mood. He grumbles to himself as he puts the weapons away, and the muttering turns to cursing as he slices his finger on the blade of the dagger.

The dagger that, he’s sure, he had blunted and damaged with the whetstone.

But surely that can’t be true, because here it is, completely intact and sharper than ever.

Dean stares at it for a few more long moments, then shakes his head and packs the dagger away with the rest of his materials. His knees crack as he rises and reaches for his pack, shoving a small pickaxe and some other basic supplies into it.

 _Stupid brothers and their stupid errands in the stupid snow,_ Dean thinks to himself as he fastens his cloak around his shoulders, and takes a moment to pull on a hat and gloves. He doesn’t mind the cold, not like he hates the sweltering heat, but he’s been indoors in the warmth all day and the idea of venturing outside of Sam’s heated house is not an appealing one.

Still, he’s nothing if not a great brother. As soon as he steps outside of the house, the cold grips him with icy fangs, and his heavy boots crunch in the ice and snow deposited on the doorstep. It takes every shred of his will to keep walking, and not just turn around and head back inside to wallow in his own misery some more, but somehow he manages it. Finding Sam’s firestone will give him some kind of purpose, at least, even if the long walk does leave him a lot of time to think. He tries to distract himself with thoughts of work, what he can get done at Sam’s and the projects he wants to undertake, rather than…

Rather than thinking about Cas.

He grits his teeth and pushes that thought to the back of his mind.

The shallow cave where they’d found the vein is halfway up the mountain, very secluded and nearly invisible to anyone who didn’t know it was there. The two of them had stumbled upon it completely by accident last Spring, the entrance hidden from the outside by an outcrop of rock. Sam had mined what resources he needed back then, and they hadn’t been back since. Luckily, Dean knows his way around the surrounding countryside, even if he hasn’t been there for a good nine months. Even if everything is covered in a couple of feet of snow.

Or so he thought.

An hour later, he’s halfway up the mountain, furs wrapped tight around his shoulders as the wind picks up particles of ice and snow and flicks them into his face. It’s not the worst he’s ever been out in, by far, but it’s still not enjoyable, and it’s really not making it easy for him to figure out where the cave is. He swears he’s traipsed across half the face of the mountain so far looking for this damn cave, and so far, he’s had no luck. The sun is getting lower in the sky and the wind is picking up – soon, he’ll have to turn back.

But if there’s one thing that’s going to put him in an even worse mood, it’s suffering through all this _and_ returning empty-handed to Sam, highlighting his complete failure to complete even the simplest of tasks.

Dean scowls and kicks at a pile of ice. Stupid fucking snow. It makes any kind of landmarks trickier to distinguish.

He resolves to keep looking for the cave for a little while longer, determined to stick it out for as long as he possibly can before he has to return to Sam in defeat. He’s too damn stubborn for that.

And that’s how Dean ends up caught in the middle of a blizzard.

Too intent on finding the cave, he hadn’t noticed how much the wind was picking up. He hadn’t noticed the light sprinkle of snow that had gradually grown heavier and heavier until it was falling in thick flakes all around him, picked up by the wind and whipped into a frenzy. The ice bites into his exposed skin, and Dean hisses with pain until he’s too cold to feel it, his face numb. Pulling his furs higher to cover the bottom half of his face doesn’t help, the cold too deeply sunk into him to be easily reversed by something so simple.

For a second, if he really concentrates, he can feel a flicker of warmth, but the freezing wind buffets him again. His head swims, and he staggers on his feet. The warmth is lost.

The blizzard reduces his vision to only a few feet in any direction, and the howling wind is the only thing that he can hear, so Dean has to rely more on feel than any of his other senses to navigate his way down the mountain. He keeps one gloved hand pressed against the side of the mountain as he tries to navigate his way down, the soft snow giving easily beneath his boots. Several times, he loses his footing, and when his foot sinks deeper than expected and sends him sliding down the hill, gnarled branches tearing at his clothes, the realization begins to sink in that he may really be in trouble here.

If he’d just taken one of Sam’s amulets, he would have been fine, instead of chilled to the bone and shivering enough to hear his teeth rattle. The blizzard is showing no signs of easing up, though, and Dean can’t just sit here and wallow in his own self-pity. If he does, he’ll die. There’s no-one coming to save him.

His limbs feel cold and leaden, and it would be so much easier to just stay where he is, sprawled in the snow, but he can’t. He _can’t_. Sam would never forgive himself, and Cas…

Dean isn’t sure that he’ll ever see Cas again anyway, but he still holds a spark of that vain, foolish hope in his chest.

He can’t die here.

As much of a mammoth effort as it is, Dean forces up out of the snow to a standing position. It feels as though it takes forever, the buffeting wind trying to force him back into submission, but Dean won’t give in. He pushes on, setting one foot in front of the other, as carefully as he possibly can to avoid ending up face-down in the snow.

The blizzard is tearing at his clothes now, buffeting him until he has no idea which way is forward, his world nothing but a dizzying, deadly swirl of white. His best bet of getting off the mountain is to keep edging his way downwards, setting one frozen foot in front of the other and trying to follow the slope of the mountain.

It’s so tempting to stop, to crumple into the snowdrifts that are up to his knees now and let the cold take him. He must have barely made it fifty yards down the mountain before his leaden feet just can’t lift any more, and he trips on a hidden tree root, barely able to lift his hands to catch himself.

It’s of no use, anyway. The snowbank collapses under Dean, and he slides with it, his gloved fingers scrabbling weakly against tree branches that bend and snap under his weight.

It’s not enough snow to bury him, but his limbs are so weak, so tired, that he has no chance of getting upright. The sliding snow carries him a few more feet, but just as he should be coming to a stop, Dean feels the ground disappear beneath his leg. He claws at the snow, but can’t find a handhold, and his bodyweight drags him down further until there’s nothing he can do but give in.

He’s falling, falling, falling.

The rocky floor below makes for an unforgiving landing.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean comes to slowly, in pieces and fragments that slowly blur together into a whole.

Stone floor, smooth beneath his cheek.

Pain radiating from his shoulder and the back of his head.

Light, blue-orange and flickering behind his eyelids.

It’s a while before he’s fully conscious and the floor ceases its sickening sway, and longer before he can muster the strength to open his eyes. He’s sprawled on what seems to be the floor of a cave, half-lying in a puddle of water that was once part of the avalanche. It must have been carried in with him through the hole in the cave ceiling – now completely covered by packed ice and snow. The stone beneath his body has been worn smooth, and where Dean expects it to be icy-cold to the touch, chilling him further, it’s… not.

It’s warm.

He’s even stopped shivering.

From Dean’s limited field of view and the muscle-deep ache that discourages any kind of movement, that’s all he can discern right now. And really, wherever he’s ended up is an improvement on where he had been – half-frozen, caught in an avalanche that was carrying him towards certain death.

That considered, he feels like his decision to close his eyes and let unconsciousness take him once again is pretty fair, really.

When he next wakes, an immeasurable amount of time later, not much has changed. The cave is still warm, the floor is still smooth, there’s still a faint, flickering light emanating from somewhere further into the cave.

This time, at least, Dean’s body isn’t feeling quite so battered. He manages to haul himself up to a sitting position, holding himself there while the room spins and the pain at the back of his skull triples in intensity. He doesn’t lose his lunch, but it’s a near thing.

Soon enough, the dizziness ebbs away, and Dean can finally take proper stock of his situation. He’s beginning to overheat in his clothes, so he strips out of his furs and set them aside  – carefully, in case he needs to grab them quickly later. It leaves him in just a tunic, undershirt, and breeches; it’s not a combination anyone in their right mind would be wearing while in such proximity to a blizzard, but at least he’s not going to die of heatstroke now.

What the fuck is making this cave so warm, anyway?

That’s not at the top of his priorities right now, though. First, he runs through all his body parts, checking what’s injured and what’s not. As a general rule, all of him aches, but he suspects that his head and right shoulder caught the brunt of the fall, because his head pounds at every movement and he can barely lift his right arm. No fighting for him, then, unless he wants to practice swordplay with his non-dominant hand. And even if it did come to that, he lost his backpack in the snow, so all he has to defend himself is the dagger tucked into the side of his boot.

Dean really hopes he’s alone in this cave.

His boots scuff against the floor as he stands, pressing his hand against the wall for support. The stone is warm, just like the floor, and Dean knows that that definitely isn’t normal. This cave shouldn’t be as warm as it is, not when there’s a blizzard raging outside. For now, with his injured state, it’s probably best to hunker down in here and wait out the storm, but that doesn’t mean he’s just going to sit around and do nothing.

He feels it in his stomach, a lingering sense like the one that has been pervading his thoughts ever since he gave life to the little blue dragon.

There’s something here.

He sticks close to the wall as he walks, just in case the movement proves too much for his swimming head. He’d rather not end up on the ground again, and if it’s slow going to accomplish that, so be it.

The cave doesn’t turn out to be that long, though. He’s barely rounded the corner before he comes up against the cave’s entrance – as much as it can be called an ‘entrance.’ It’s been blocked by a huge boulder, almost the same size as the cave’s mouth. Snowflakes drift in through the small gaps and dematerialize in midair, melted by the cave’s warmth. Water has collected in the divots in the floor by the cave’s entrance.

At least Dean can drink it if he gets thirsty, since it looks like getting out of this cave might be more difficult that he’d first thought.

Hopefully there’ll be another exit in the other direction. Dean turns and heads back the way he came, his fingertips dragging across the stone wall. He returns to the place where he fell, the hole in the roof still blocked by ice, and continues on in the other direction.

It isn’t long until he reaches the other end, where the passageway widens out a little more. While the roof in the rest of the cave had been Dean’s height and then another half again, the ceiling in the chamber of the cave is only a little higher – about twice Dean’s height. It’s much wider, though, opening out into a grand chamber.

It’s only when Dean’s gaze falls upon the fire burning to the side of the chamber, blue-orange flames licking their smokeless way towards the ceiling, seemingly needing no fuel to sustain them, that he realizes _why_ he can see in a cave that should rightfully be pitch black.

The flames are mesmerizing – they dance and weave, but don’t grow any taller or shorter, don’t spread or fold inwards. They move, and flicker, but remain in the same place, and Dean feels a low prickle of magic even from where he’s standing, several yards away.

As he steps forward, closer to the fire, his gaze slides past it, and despite the handful of seconds it takes for his eyes to adjust, he can see that the cave isn’t as empty as he’d thought. The flickering light glints off the surface of whatever’s behind the fire, glimmering in blues and oranges as it reflects back at Dean.

Whatever it is, it’s _big_. Curiosity pricks at Dean as he edges further into the cave, his sight slowly adjusting.

The object resolves itself into shapes that take him a few seconds to piece together. The curve of a spine; the fold of a huge wing; the sharpness of claws and the delicate taper of a snout.

Dean may never have seen one of these in real life, but he remembers enough from his dreams to recognize what’s in front of him.

It’s a dragon.

It’s also asleep, curled up like a cat with its paws tucked up beneath it and tail tucked up close. One huge wing is folded over the side of its body that Dean is closest to, covering most of it from view – though he _does_ notice the golden gleam of something sheltered beneath its wing, whatever it is that the dragon is curled around and protecting. Thankfully, the dragon’s eyes remain closed, tiny wisps of smoke emanating from its nose with each slow exhale.

“Holy fuck,” is the only thing Dean can say, the most reflexive action for him to take, because somehow he’s managed to stumble across a _dragon_ in the midst of a blizzard, through sheer luck and idiocy.

“Holy fuck,” he says again, because he can.

And then the dragon’s eyes slit open.

The cave resonates with a deep rumble as sapphire blue eyes blink against the firelight, drowsily, as if it’s been woken from a deep sleep – which, Dean supposes, it has. If it was asleep in a cave in the middle of winter (a cave with the entrance conveniently blocked), it’s probably hibernating. Fair enough, too. The conditions outside aren’t much fun.

Dean goes very still as the dragon snorts, twin plumes of smoke spiraling up towards the ceiling and dissipating into the air. Hopefully it’s still asleep enough that it won’t notice him, that it won’t decide it’s due for a mid-hibernation snack. Despite his fascination with the creatures, Dean is not particularly keen on the idea of becoming one’s lunch.

Luckily, the dragon merely shifts and settles again, one wing flexing over whatever it’s protecting and then relaxing. The dragon blinks, eyes still a little unfocused, and casts one last cursory glance around the cave again before it goes to shut its eyes.

It’s just Dean’s luck that that sapphire-blue gaze lands on him a second before the dragon is about to go back to sleep.

In a heartbeat, the dragon draws itself up to its full height and roars threateningly at Dean, teeth gleaming white in the firelight and spines extended along its neck and all the way down its back to the end of its tail. Blue wings flare, buffeting the flames until they’re licking up towards the ceiling with their intensity and throwing this terrifying tableau into sharp relief. The extra light glitters off the pile of gold and jewels and other items that the dragon was protecting, its tail now wrapped around the pile’s perimeter and flicking in agitation.

The dragon is clearly ready to protect its hoard – not that Dean has any intention of stealing it. He has the fleeting thought that it might be cool to take a look at some of the dragon’s items, to sate his curiosity as a blacksmith and craftsman, but that would require him to make it through this encounter with all body parts intact, and he seriously doubts that’s going to happen.

The roar feels like it’s vibrating through Dean’s bones and into his very soul, and he’s too terrified to even swear as he crumples to the ground where he stands, his hands held palm-up in the air to show the dragon he means no harm – not that a dragon could understand that, anyway, but it’s worth a goddamn shot. He’s not going to survive if it comes down to a fight, not when his shoulder aches and he’s armed only with the dagger tucked into his boot.

“I’m not here to take your stuff, I swear, I swear to the gods, please,” he croaks out, his mind going to all the things he regrets in the moment before he dies. Leaving Sam alone by himself, forever carrying the guilt of their last, harried interaction. Not getting the chance to see Cas one last time.

He closes his eyes and braces himself for the blow that will end it all, for a lash of the strong, whip-like tail, or those great teeth to close around his skull.

But it never comes.

Slowly, Dean opens his eyes, still huddled on the floor of the cave.

The dragon is staring at him, seemingly frozen in place with wings half-flared and smoke still curling from its nostrils. He’s not sure, but from the way it’s gone totally still, he’d almost say the dragon looks shocked.

That makes two of them.

They just stare at each other for several long moments, Dean’s muscles complaining about the position that he’s found himself in – but he’s too terrified to move. Eventually, the dragon slowly lowers its wings until they’re folded against its back, and closes its mouth. It settles back onto its haunches, tail still curved protectively around its hoard, and Dean slowly lowers his hands. When the movement doesn’t result in instant incineration, he takes that as a good sign, and shifts into a slightly more comfortable position on the floor.

The flames are beginning to die down again – when Dean starts to fall into shadow, the dragon turns its head and breathes another tongue of fire towards the cave floor. This time, it illuminates the whole cave, firelight dappling over the dragon’s scales and exposing it in full.

As the dragon turns its head back to Dean, tucking its paws underneath itself and fixing that piercing blue gaze on him once again, he’s hit with a wave of realization that sends his head reeling.

The dragon in front of him is the spitting image of the one that haunted his thoughts, his dreams, the one he shaped with wire and breathed life into with craftsman’s hands.

It’s the spitting image of the dragon that he gifted to Cas.

“I’m losing my fucking mind,” he groans, tucking his injured arm against his chest and rubbing at his eyes with his other hand. Despite the flames that warm the cave, there are no cinders or smoke – he’s just so _tired_. “That’s the only damn explanation.”

This is all a dream, right? He’s probably still unconscious on the ground where he landed, and this is all just a figment of his imagination. That’s the only discernible reason for his wire dragon having come to life, after all. He’s been thinking about Cas, _missing_ Cas, so much lately that his brain and the knock to the head have sent him spinning off into some dream-world.

It would’ve been nice if his brain had included _Cas_ in the dream-world, instead of a dragon that Dean still doesn’t entirely trust not to eat him.

Dream or not, his head is still fucking pounding, pain radiating outwards from the spot where he must have hit the hard stone of the cave floor. He doesn’t feel up to investigating his situation and trying to find out what’s really going on, and the further away from the dragon he can keep himself, the better. Dean shuffles backwards until his back hits the stone wall of the cave, his gaze still focused on the dragon, which doesn’t move – just continues to stare at him, unblinking.

That’s fine by him. As long as there’s distance between them and he doesn’t get eaten, he doesn’t care what the thing does. He’s too sore and too weirded out to be curious.

Dean rests his head in his hands and closes his eyes in an attempt to stave off the worst of the pain, his whole body exhausted and leaden. He just needs a few moments to recuperate, and gather himself again, and then he can address this situation.

He’s not expecting to fall asleep, but when it comes for him, there’s nothing he can do to fight it.

~

Dean doesn’t dream. Not normally, not weirdly, not at all. It’s just black.

When he wakes, it’s with a start, his heart racing and hand on his boot, where his knife is sheathed. He’s ready to defend himself in a heartbeat (what kind of idiot falls asleep right next to a dragon?), but when he looks around the cave, the dragon is still where it was when he fell asleep, still watching him.

Dean doesn’t know much about dragons other than what he’s read in lore or heard in stories, but he’s pretty sure that they’re not usually this… laid back. Maybe it’s an individual dragon thing?

“That’s a little creepy, you know that?” he mutters in the dragon’s direction, slowly relaxing his muscles and pulling his hand away from his weapon.Dean takes a second to rub at his eyes and stretching out his back. His headache seems to have mostly faded, though his arm still aches. Strangely enough, he doesn’t really feel hungry or thirsty.

The dragon doesn’t respond, just slowly blinks those great, jewel-blue eyes. Of course – it wasn’t like Dean was expecting a response. Still, he’s getting antsy now. He doesn’t do well with long periods of inactivity, or being stuck somewhere with nothing to do. He may as well talk _at_ the dragon, even if there’s no way it can understand him.

“Really? You’re not gonna give me anything? Not even a reason as to why you didn’t chomp me up like a dragon-sized snack?”

Still nothing. The dragon flicks one ear, shifts a paw, but that’s about it. For something with very sharp teeth that could burn him to a crisp with a single breath, it’s reasonably relaxed.

Dean squints suspiciously. “You sure you’re not gonna eat me?”

The dragon huffs out twin spirals of smoke and shakes its head.

Dean’s mouth drops open.

Holy shit, it can actually understand him.

It understands what he’s saying, it understands the common tongue, it understands the _meaning_ behind Dean’s words and can respond. Sam would go nuts over this. As it is, though, Dean is a little more guarded. He hasn’t been eaten _yet_ , but it’s still a possibility that he won’t rule out.

“How do I know you’re not lying to me, huh? How do I know that you’re not gonna take my head off as soon as I turn my back?” The dragon had had a perfectly good opportunity when it first woke up, and even more opportunity while Dean was asleep, but it’s still worth double-checking. Perhaps the dragon likes to play with its food.

But instead of an aggressive reaction, the dragon just rolls its eyes and blows out a small burst of flame, barely longer than Dean’s forearm. From someone who grew up with Sam Winchester, Dean recognizes a bitchface when he sees one, even when it’s coming from something that is definitely not human.

“Alright,” he grumbles, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at the dragon, “so that might’ve been a dumb question. Can you blame me, though? Fuck, I wasn’t expecting a _blizzard_ , let alone a dragon.”

And now he’s talking to a dragon. Even though it can understand him, it’s still not his greatest moment. _Fantastic_.

“I really am losing my mind,” he mutters to himself. The sooner he can get out of here, the better. The rock blocking the entrance isn’t going to make that easy, but surely he can figure something out. For now, though, it looks like he’s staying put. Even if he was at full strength, he probably wouldn’t be able to move the huge rock.

Dean figures he’d better settle in. He can wait for the blizzard to die down outside, then try and find a way out, but for now, he leans his back against the wall and slides his dagger out of his boot, desperate for something to keep his hands busy. Without it, his mental state is going to go downhill pretty damn quickly.

As soon as the dagger comes out, the blade gleaming in the firelight, the dragon’s attention is immediately drawn to it. It rears up slightly, eyes narrowed and wings half-flared, a rumble building in its chest as it eyes the sharp weapon. It could be scared or threatening or just mesmerized by the shiny metal, Dean isn’t sure, but he should really err on the side of caution when he’s dealing with a creature with so many teeth.

“Relax,” he tells it, holding up his free hand and wincing as the action pulls on his shoulder. “Like I could hurt you with this. I just need it to keep my hands busy, or I’m definitely gonna lose my marbles being stuck in here. I can’t exactly talk to a dragon, after all.”

The dragon watches him for a few more seconds, still tense and ready to move. It flinches minutely as Dean flips the dagger between his fingers, obviously expecting some kind of attack, its eyes fixed on the gleaming blade. “Really?” Dean asks, a small, amused smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “A big dragon like you is afraid of a little dagger?”

A low growl rumbles from the dragon’s chest, but it doesn’t sound aggressive or threatening this time – just grumpy. Dean’s smile widens to a grin as the dragon settles back down. Its gaze never leaves Dean, either focusing on his face or the dagger as he flips it between his fingers or tosses it up into the air to catch it by the hilt, but it’s not as intimidating as it probably should be.

Dean amuses himself this way for a little while, but eventually his mind starts to wander, his focus waning, and he nicks his fingertip on the blade as it slips from his hand on a botched spin. “Ow,” he mutters under his breath as he watches a bead of blood well from the cut. It’s nothing serious, and he’s quick to suck the tip of his finger between his lips to stop the bleeding. When he looks up, though, he sees that the dragon has shuffled a few feet closer, its eyes wide and almost… concerned.

“I’m fine,” Dean reassures, holding his finger up to show the dragon. The bleeding has already stopped. It really wasn’t anything more than a little nick. “It’s just super sharp, is all.” He smiles at the memory that floats to the surface of his mind, picking the dagger back up off the floor where he’d dropped it and running a careful finger along the edge.

“My friend gave me this dagger,” he recalls fondly. He’s still sure that he remembers blunting it earlier today, but if it was sharp enough to cut him so easily… maybe the fall messed with his head more than he’d thought. He tries not to think about it, instead turning his mind elsewhere.

The corners of his mouth pull downwards.

“I miss him,” he admits quietly, rubbing one thumb over the flat of his dagger and leaning his head back against the wall. “He just… disappeared. Said he’d be back, but I dunno if I’ll ever see him again. If I do, I guess I’ll have a pretty cool story to tell him. Holed up in a cave with a dragon.”

Dean levels the dagger at the dragon in a mock warning, his lips curled up into a slightly sad half-smile. It simply blinks, watching him intently. “So please don’t eat me, okay? I want to get outta this alive. I want to…”

He trails off, drops the hand holding the dagger into his lap and runs his fingers through his hair. What does he want? So many things, he realizes, but… none that he can really admit to, or shape into words.

If only the last time they saw each other, that almost-kiss… If only that had gone differently.

He blows out a harsh sigh.

“I want to see him again,” he finishes. It doesn’t even begin to encompass everything that he’s feeling, but for now, it’ll do. “I don’t know what it is about him, he’s just… he’s so vibrant. He makes me happy, and being around him just feels… Right.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his face and sets his dagger down on the ground beside him. Right now, it reminds him too much of Cas; the gifts he’d brought, the days they’d spent together, the giddy feeling in Dean’s chest whenever they touched.

“This is so fucking stupid,” he mutters, tucking his knees up against his chest. He’s talking to a _dragon_ about someone he only knew for a handful of weeks, someone who didn’t even tell Dean that he was leaving. He shouldn’t be so fucking hung up on Cas – he left, it’s no big deal, Dean needs to _move on_. It’s obviously not like Cas was actually planning to come back anyway, not after how much time has passed. He should just forget about Cas.

But he can’t. And he doesn’t know why.

Or he doesn’t want to admit why.

The dragon rumbles deep in its chest, and lifts its head, tail flicking back and forth in a slightly agitated, restless gesture. Dean raises an eyebrow at it, and frowns when the dragon huffs out a small burst of fire. What’s got its tail in a knot? He watches as it shifts its wings, folding them and refolding them against its back.

Finally, it sits up and retracts its tail a little from where it was curled protectively around the pile of treasures that Dean hasn’t quite gotten a clear look at so far. Is it showing him its hoard? Now _that_ gets Dean’s attention, and he straightens up. When the dragon doesn’t otherwise move, just shifts its head to be able to watch Dean better with those blue eyes, Dean climbs carefully to his feet and shuffles a little closer. He’s still tentative – if he’s wrong about the meaning behind the dragon’s behaviour, he might end up more than a little singed, but he can’t help himself.

Luckily, he seems to have guessed correctly. Although the dragon shifts its paws in a gesture that’s almost shy, it doesn’t otherwise react, letting Dean peer at the pile of gold and jewels and other items that are difficult to discern in the flickering firelight.

That said, he’s already categorizing the items that he _can_ see; a carved scroll case that looks similar to those valued by the Gifted scholars, a wicked-looking sword that has to be at least a century old, piles of coins of different currencies, from varied regions and periods of time.

And atop it all, the firelight gleaming off burnished blue metal, catching on sapphires and semi-transparent glass…

Dean’s eyes widen.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

It’s the little wire dragon.

The wire dragon that he’d last seen in Cas’s hands.

So how did it come to be here?

The realization hits Dean like a punch to the gut. Cas would never have parted with that sculpture. So if the wire dragon is here, as part of a _real_ dragon’s hoard…

The dragon starts when Dean draws his dagger and whirls towards it, head rearing back and wings arching. One paw lifts off the ground as it leans back, evidently a little surprised at Dean’s sudden aggression. Dean doesn’t care – his heart feels like it’s been shredded, grief turning to rage inside his chest. His dominant hand is useless and he only has a dagger, but he will make this beast _pay_.

“You killed him,” he snarls.

But before he can lunge, the cave shakes with the force of a roar and the sound of grinding stone.

Instantly, the dragon’s tail curls around its hoard, one wing coming down to cover it from view as it crouches down, because that roar definitely hadn’t come from the creature in front of him. Its gaze shifts between Dean and the entrance of the cave that’s tucked just around the corner and is – _was_ – blocked by a huge boulder, as though it can’t figure out which is the bigger threat. It doesn’t blink, teeth bared as it sweeps the pile of gold and treasures behind itself with its tail, to the wall of the cave.

The sound of grinding stone comes again, and all the spines along the dragon’s back stand up on end. Dean’s beginning to think he may have bigger problems than just _one_ man-eating dragon. He settles into a guarded stance – whatever the hell is here, Dean will be ready for it.

The dragon spares him a glance as he moves. When it sees the way he’s standing, poised to fight whatever is trying to get into the cave (even though he likely has no chance against whatever has the capacity to scare a dragon), it growls. The sound reverberates dangerously through the cave, and Dean’s instincts tell him to run, but he holds his ground. Whatever the dragon is trying to communicate through that growl, Dean doesn’t give a damn.

If he’s going to die, which is looking increasingly likely, it’ll be with a weapon in his hand.

“Fuck you,” he growls back, teeth bared in a snarl of his own as he flips his danger between the fingers of his left hand. “If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting.”

That must have been the wrong thing to say, because the dragon turns towards him now, and Dean can almost _see_ his death at the end of those sharp, gleaming teeth, or the wicked claws that scrape along the cave floor as it moves. For whatever reason, it’s kept Dean alive in its cave for this long. But now, just like Cas, his time is up.

He brandishes his dagger just as a long big, blue wing snaps out towards him. It’s almost too fast for him to react, but Dean moves on instinct, managing to slash his blade through part of the wing’s webbing before it hits him. The dragon grunts in pain, and bright red droplets spatter across the cave floor, but the small wound isn’t enough to stop the wing’s trajectory. The dragon knocks him backwards off his feet and sends him skidding along the cave floor. Dean’s back slams into the wall, and he gets the wind knocked out of him, gasping for a second or two as he tries to catch his breath.

His head is spinning, still sensitive from the knock it took during his initial fall, but even though the scene before him is fuzzy and tilting slightly back and forth, he can still see what’s happening from where he’s crumpled on the cave floor.

Instead of attacking him, or delivering the killing blow, the blue dragon settles in front of Dean, wings outstretched in front of both him and its hoard. There’s a gash in one wing, still bleeding sluggishly onto the floor, and Dean can’t help the pang of guilt that seizes him as he realizes that the dragon had just been trying to get him out of the way. It’s protecting him now, protecting him from whatever is coming into the cave.

But why is it protecting Dean, after what it did to Cas?

He doesn’t get to consider that much further, though. There’s one last loud, heaving, grinding sound, and then another threatening growl. Dean knows instinctively that it isn’t coming from the blue dragon – _his_ dragon.

From beneath the blue dragon’s wing, Dean sees another dragon step around the corner and into the open cave chamber. This one is ice-white, its eyes a piercing, almost translucent blue, and it carries the marks of previous battles in the ropy scars across its snout, the irregularities to the webbing of its wings, the pockmarks and burns across its chest from crossbow bolts and Gift-fire.

It’s so much bigger than the blue dragon, hunching down in the entrance of the cave and baring its teeth.

Now Dean understands why the blue dragon had pushed him back – though he still doesn’t know why it’s protecting him. He wouldn’t have even been a morsel of a meal for the white dragon. The temperature in the cave drops a few degrees as the white dragon flares its wings as much as it can manage in the small space, and a flurry of snowflakes materialize in the air around it.

For a few seconds, the two dragons are still, each poised for movement with outstretched wings and arched necks, teeth bared and twin growls rumbling out into the air between them.

Stillness and quiet, the cave held in a single moment in time, tenuous and whisper-thin and so fragile.

And then it splinters, and shatters.

The white dragon lunges, its head snaked forward and ears pinned flat back as it snaps at the blue dragon. Luckily, there’s still a little too much space between them, and when Dean’s dragon rears back, the attack falls short with sharp teeth closing on empty air. The blue dragon flaps its wings once to keep itself balanced, the gust buffeting Dean and sending the pillar of flames scattering into disarray. Shadows leap and dance across the cave walls before the fire settles back into its magic-dictated form.

Dean braces himself against the blast of wind, cursing under his breath at the grit that is carried into the air and raising a forearm to shield himself. The next time he looks, the blue dragon is crouched down against the stone floor, wings curled threateningly – though the one that’s still bleeding looks a little awkwardly held, as though it’s causing the dragon pain. It’s a defensive stance, and Dean isn’t sure why his dragon isn’t attacking.

Until the white dragon tenses, muscles coiling as though it’s about to spring, and the blue dragon launches a bolt of fire right at the other dragon’s face. The white dragon has to make a split second correction to its movement, twisting to get out of the way of the fire and putting itself off-balance in the process. It flares out a wing to try and steady itself, but the cave is too small for it to be able to properly flare it in such a way that would restore equilibrium. Instead, it staggers against the cave wall in a collision that feels as though it shakes the very mountain. Being so large, the white dragon is not very manoeuvrable – Dean can only watch and hope that the blue dragon can use that to its advantage.

However, while it’s much less agile, the white dragon makes up for the disparity with sheer size and strength. It uses the wall of the cave to push back up onto its feet before the blue dragon has an opportunity to attack, and lashes its tail from side to side as it growls furiously. There’s no doubt that Dean would stand no chance in the middle of this fight. Still, if it comes down to it, he’ll be ready to defend himself. His head is swimming a little less now, and he props himself up onto one elbow, knife held loosely in his other hand in case he needs it.

It proves to be the wrong thing to do.

His movement, even though it’s barely noticeable, is enough to draw the blue dragon’s attention for just a second. It glances back at him with the slightest turn of its head and swivels one ear in Dean’s direction.

The white dragon takes a lightning-fast half-step forward, and the blue dragon shrieks in agony as teeth close around the bones at the top of its wing.

Dean’s heart twists in his chest at the sound and his own powerlessness, and he’s utterly helpless to do anything but watch as the blue dragon raises a paw to claw at the other dragon’s face until it lets go. The white dragon retreats a little with a new gash running the length of its cheek, but the blue dragon has come out worse. Its already-injured wing is half-curled, unable to furl properly and dangling at half-mast by its side.

The sound of pain it made is still etched in Dean’s mind, grating over his senses. Guilt rakes at him with sharp claws – it’s his fault that his dragon is hurt. It’s his fault that his dragon is even under attack. The roar it gave when it discovered Dean is probably what drew the white dragon to the hidden cave in the first place.

He tries to keep himself steady even as his stomach roils with nausea, and forces himself to watch the fight. If there’s anything he can do to help, he will.

The white dragon seems more confident now, edging a little further into the cave in an attempt to press the blue dragon back and force it into a smaller space with less room to defend itself. Still, refusing to be cowed, the blue dragon growls and snaps its teeth at every advance, small enough and agile enough to be able to dodge every attempted bite or swipe of claws. The white dragon roars in frustration and parts its jaws.

A ball of ice larger than Dean’s head forms in the dragon’s maw, and before he can blink, it’s being shot straight at the blue dragon. They’re far apart enough that Dean’s dragon has time to react, and it conjures up a tongue of fire, melting the ball of ice before it can find its target.

Not to be deterred by its failure, however, the white dragon takes a step forward and conjures three more in quick succession. The first is melted into a puddle of water on the cave floor, and the second is batted away by the dragon’s good wing, shattering into shards of ice against the cave wall a few feet to his right.

The third, though, finds its target.

Heavy and solid and travelling at speed, the third ball of ice slams into the blue dragon’s shoulder and knocks it off balance. It falls onto its side, keening in pain as it crushes its injured wing beneath its own bodyweight.

The white dragon is on it in an instant.

One paw pins the blue dragon to the ground, and Dean can only watch in horror as wicked, razor-sharp claws tear into the soft scales of the dragon’s underbelly.

“No!” he screams, the sound tearing its way out of him and ripping the very air apart. He reaches one hand out towards the blue dragon – his dragon, _his_ – as though he can do something to stop this.

And the wings of the white dragon burst into flames.

It shrieks and rears back in shock, slamming its head into the roof of the cave and staggering sideways a few steps as it tries to regain its balance. It’s still flapping its flame-engulfed wings, which is only making the blaze worse, and despite the fact that the fire dissipates after a few seconds, the dragon’s wings are still left charred and scorched.

The white dragon turns its gaze on Dean, its pale blue eyes incandescent with fury.

Before it can even think about attacking, the blue dragon’s tail whips across its face, striking it directly in one eye. It roars in pain and stumbles back, and the blue dragon heaves itself to its feet as though possessed, following it every step and striking at every part that it can reach.

The onslaught is too much for the white dragon. Partially blind, with half-incinerated wings, and being attacked at every opportunity by the blue dragon that it had thought wasn’t getting up again, it turns as best it can in the tight space and disappears back around the cave’s corner.

The blue dragon chases it to the bend, just to be sure that it’s really gone, sending it off with a fierce roar.

Dean thinks, for a second, that it’s going to be okay.

And then the blue dragon sways on the spot, and collapses onto the floor of the cave.

“Fuck!” Dean chokes out, dropping his dagger and scrambling to his feet. The few seconds it takes for him to cross the cave are a few seconds too long, and by the time he reaches the dragon’s side, it’s lying completely motionless. Blood oozes sluggishly from the wound on its chest.

“No,” he whispers, grief constricting his chest until he can’t breathe. “No, no, please, come on.”

He reaches out a trembling hand to touch the dragon’s side.

As soon as his fingertips brush scales, there’s a flash of blue light so bright that Dean has to close his eyes against it, and even then, it feels like it’s searing into his retinas.

The light fades after a few seconds, and Dean blinks his eyes open. It takes him a moment to adjust back to the semi-darkness of the cave, but once he can see again, his eyes go wide with shock.

It’s not a dragon in front of him, not any more.

It’s Cas.

Except it’s not Cas. Not how Dean knows him, at least.

This Cas has a pair of small blue horns curving out from his forehead, and his body is dotted with patterns of glimmering scales.

This Cas has his left arm bent at an unnatural angle, and his skin painted red with the blood that seeps from the ragged gashes in his chest.

This Cas still isn’t moving.

“Castiel,” Dean chokes out, lifting one hand to cup Cas’s – the dragon’s – face.

He gives himself a tiny moment to freak out over what he’s just seen (because it’s not every day he sees a dragon turn into his best friend who he’s possibly, probably, definitely in love with, _especially_ when he thought that friend had been eaten by said dragon) and then pushes it aside. He doesn’t have time for that right now.

Cas’s tanned skin looks too pale, and Dean’s fingers tremble as he strokes his thumb over his cheekbone. “Cas?”

Nothing.

Blood oozes from the wicked gash, the smell of it acrid and metallic on Dean’s tongue, and there’s so much of it, staining Cas’s skin. He has to stop the flow if he has any hope of saving his friend – because, damn it, he may have no idea what the fuck is going on or who the fuck Cas really is, but he only just got him back and Dean will _not_ let him die here today.

He lets go of Cas for long enough to rip off his tunic and the undershirt beneath, pulling them hurriedly over his head. The tunic isn’t the right material to staunch the flow of blood effectively, but the undershirt is, and he wads it up before pressing it desperately against the gash in Cas’s chest.

Almost immediately, it soaks through with blood. There’s a knot in Dean’s chest, and he can barely breathe, his other hand trembling as he reaches back up to cup Cas’s face. The hard stone floor digs painfully into his knees where he kneels by his fallen friend, but he hardly notices as he brushes his thumb over Cas’s cheek in a gesture too soft to match the frantic beat of his heart.

“Cas, please,” he chokes out, hating the way his voice wobbles. He just wants to see those beautiful blue eyes one more time. “Please don’t die. I… I couldn’t handle losing you a second time.”

Dean’s undershirt isn’t doing much to stop the flow of blood any more, and his fingers flex uselessly around the soaked fabric.

He feels utterly helpless, watching his friend die in front of him, right here in his arms.

And there’s nothing he can do.

“Look at me, Cas,” he begs, and he knows there are tears tracking down his cheeks now, but he doesn’t care. “Please.”

Something builds in his chest, builds and builds until he can’t possibly contain it any more, until he feels like he might just shake apart with the force of his own raw grief.

“Look at me!” he shouts – the last-ditch efforts of a man desperate to see the eyes of the man he loves one last time.

The feeling in Dean’s chest _snaps_ , and Castiel’s eyes fly open as he sucks in a breath.

Immediately, his muscles convulse, and the inhalation rattles in his chest, beneath Dean’s bloodstained fingers.

There’s red on his lips, and his blue gaze is hazy when it finds Dean.

He tries to stop the tears still sliding silently down his cheeks, and shuffles a little closer on the cold stone.

“Dean,” Castiel breathes, and he lifts one hand to Dean’s face. It trembles, like the one gesture is consuming all of Cas’s energy; his fingers card lightly through Dean’s hair, once, then the hand drops to the necklace that has rested against Dean’s chest ever since Cas put it there. The scale.

 _Cas’s_ scale. It all makes sense now.

Castiel smiles, slow and a little delirious, and some of his teeth are stained crimson. His fingers slip weakly from the pendant. “So glad I… got to see you again… would never have forgiven myself…”

He’s not forming coherent sentecnes, delirious with blood loss. Dean holds him closer, feeling his heart fracture more with every second that passes.

“Cas, don’t die, please don’t die,” he begs, but he knows it’s futile. Not even Sam could save Cas now.

Castiel tilts his head up just slightly and leans into Dean’s touch. His lashes flutter, his eyes lidded, and his voice is quiet but surprisingly steady as he asks, “Kiss me, Dean?”

If this is Cas’s dying wish, then kissing him isn’t selfish. It’s fulfilling his best friend’s wish – the wish of the man he loves. That’s what Dean tells himself as he chokes out a sob and nods, bending down to gently brush his mouth over Cas’s.

His lips are soft, and when Dean deepens the kiss just a little, he can taste the coppery tang of blood on his tongue, but that doesn’t stop him. He drinks in every little bit of Cas that he can – every sigh and feeble movement of his lips, the warmth of his skin under Dean’s palm.

Warm.

 _Too_ warm.

By the time Dean truly realizes, distracted and increasingly confused as he is, Castiel is almost too hot to touch, his skin and lips scorching. Dean swears as he pulls away, hating that he has to break the kiss, but it’s just in time. Flame flickers to life just above the wound on Cas’s chest, and while it’s quick to lick over and consume Dean’s undershirt, it spreads quickly, and soon enough, Cas’s whole body is shrouded in blue-orange fire.

Castiel remains unmoving, his eyes closed, arms by his sides. The flames are growing ever brighter as they dance across his bare skin, and Dean can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “What the fuck?” he whispers to himself – what the hell does the fire mean? Is it normal? It could be a burial thing for…

 _Dragons_ , his mind tells him. He knows that that’s what Cas is, saw the blue dragon become his friend in front of his own eyes, but it still feels surreal, even as he watches the flames lick over Castiel’s body, which remains undamaged.

The fire is getting brighter now, the flames stretching higher towards the ceiling, but Dean forces himself to watch until his eyes burn from the light and he has to squeeze them shut, scrambling backwards a few feet and throwing his forearm up over his eyes. He won’t be privy to Cas’s last moment, and his heart twists painfully in his chest, but maybe that’s the way things are supposed to be. Maybe it’s a private moment, able to be witnessed only by others of Cas’s kind.

That doesn’t stop the hot prickle of tears behind his eyelids.

After half a minute, the searing light subsides, and Dean tentatively lowers his forearm. When he opens his eyes, brilliant white spots dance in his vision, and it takes him a few seconds to try and blink them away. It’s only once they’re gone that he realizes – the cave is completely dark. All traces of fire, be they the ones that had consumed Cas’s body or the tongues of flame that had been present when he’d arrived, are gone.

He can’t see anything, and he certainly can’t see Cas.

He doesn’t even know if he’s still there – or if his _body_ is still there, because honestly, he has no idea what the fire meant, and that’s downright terrifying.

“Cas?” he calls. His voice sounds small and tremulous in the silence and the black darkness. “Cas, are you there?”

Nothing.

 _Please don’t let him be dead, please don’t let him be dead_.

Dean remembers roughly where Cas had been lying before the fire had forced him to close his eyes; now he rises up onto his knees and presses trembling hands to the cool stone floor. Slowly, so slowly, he shuffles forwards, sweeping his hands back and forth as he feels around in the darkness, hoping that he’ll find Cas. He’s lost the glare of the fire that had seared itself onto his retinas, but the cave is completely devoid of any kind of light by which to see.

He just has to feel and to hope.

 _Please_.

The palm of his hand brushes over a section of slightly warmer stone. Hope and dread war in Dean’s chest as he leans forward, and his fingertips bump what feels like Cas’s arm.

Dean’s breath catches in his chest and he throws himself closer to Cas, pressing one hand to his arm. The other finds the centre of Castiel’s chest, fingers splaying over bare skin.

Bare skin where, previously, there was a gaping wound.

Bare skin that is now completely smooth.

Bare skin that is _warm_.

For a few seconds that seem to stretch on forever, the cave is silent, and Cas is still. Dean holds his breath.

And then Cas’s chest rises, and he inhales, and Dean’s body floods with relief.

He’s _alive_.

A flicker of flame licks around Cas’s fingertips, close to where Dean’s hand is holding his arm. Dean flinches back, but not quite in time; he sees the yellow-blue flame caress his skin, and braces himself for the pain that is sure to hit a half-second later.

It never comes.

Dean’s eyes widen in shock, but before he can process that fact any further, Castiel’s chest shakes with a rattling cough, and then his eyes blink open. In the darkness of the cave, they glow a faint blue colour, and Dean’s breath hitches as they fix on him. While Dean can barely see, the only light provided by the tiny tongues of flame and the glow of Cas’s own eyes, it’s clear that Cas’s vision can easily pierce the veil of darkness shrouding the cave.

“Dean…” he whispers, shock and awe colouring the word. When a small pillar of fire twirls into being on the other side of Castiel only seconds later, Dean sees that his expression matches the tone in his voice. “You healed me. I… I didn’t think you’d be able to do it.”

There’s no clear point to begin picking _that_ statement apart, so Dean focuses on another point instead – the enormity of which is only just beginning to hit him.

“What the fuck was that?” he demands, crowding closer until his knees are almost touching Cas’s side. This close, and in the newly-created firelight, he can see that there’s no sign of the wound that had threatened Castiel’s life. Instead, his skin is clean and smooth. “You were dying, Cas. You were dying, and now you’re… not.”

Castiel’s eyes grow slightly wider, and his throat bobs when he swallows. The movement draws Dean’s attention to the tiny scales scattered over his collarbones, and he has to resist the urge to reach out and brush his fingers over them. Now is not the time—right now, he needs answers.

A few seconds of silence pass as Castiel chews his bottom lip, and then he sighs. He won’t look directly at Dean, his gaze veiled by his lashes, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet.

“You reinforced my magic, Dean. You gave me enough of yours that my body could heal itself.”

His magic.

 _His_ magic? But… Dean doesn’t have any magic. The gods knew how much he’d tried to match Sam’s Gift when he was younger, his brother’s abilities always so strongly manifested even from birth. But it had never worked for Dean; he simply doesn’t have the Gift. So why is Cas saying this? There’s no way Dean could have had any hand in his resurrection.

“I don’t… but… I’m not Gifted,” is all he can say, as he struggles to make sense of the information Cas is giving him.

Castiel gives him a small, shaky smile that doesn’t quite reach his slightly feline eyes, and folds a hand gently over Dean’s own where it rests on his chest. “No, you’re not,” he murmurs, and he seems to pause and steel himself before he continues on, his pupils dilating and contracting nervously in the firelight. “But… a dragon’s human mate will possess some of the dragon’s own powers.” He tightens his grip ever so slightly on Dean’s hand. “My magic flows through your veins.”

_The dragon’s wings bursting into flame._

_Castiel opening his eyes._

_The fire that had engulfed Cas’s body, and that had touched Dean but not burned him._

Moments that hadn’t made sense are now falling into place, but it’s still too much for Dean’s brain to handle. He goes very still, his gaze fixed on Cas, who’s so tense beneath Dean’s hands that Dean can almost feel his nervousness radiating through the air. “This is a joke, right?” Dean ventures. His heart twists in his chest when Cas flinches and looks away, but… there’s no way this can be real. “I… I’m a human, and you’re… there’s no way I could ever be your—your mate.”

Castiel moves to sit up, his gaze sliding away from Dean’s as if he doesn’t want whatever emotions that are on display to be seen. Considering that Cas had almost died just a few minutes ago, however, Dean isn’t letting him away easily. He still needs to rest, and Dean halts his movements with a gentle but firm hand on his chest.

Reluctantly, Cas settles back down on the floor, but he still won’t look directly at Dean.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he says softly, “but it’s true. It’s not unheard of for dragons to have human mates. It’s not a widely known fact to humankind, but trust me when I say it’s not as uncommon as you think.” Castiel’s gaze lifts to Dean’s, and there’s such a depth of emotion in those blue irises that it feels like all the breath has been knocked out of Dean’s lungs.

Cas blinks slowly, then lifts one hand to press it over Dean’s where it lies on his chest.

“May I show you?” he asks.

Unable to do anything else, Dean simply nods, and watches as Castiel raises his other hand. His fingers are soft where he cups Dean’s cheek, and he leans into the touch as Cas’s thumb brushes over the centre of his forehead.

Dean barely has time to blink, and when he does, he opens his eyes to find that he’s no longer kneeling in a firelit cave. Instead, he’s surrounded by people, standing beside a busy road that looks… somewhat familiar.

The view changes, and it takes Dean a sickening moment of confusion before he realises that he has no control over where he’s looking. These are Castiel’s memories.

And this is Dean’s village.

He recognises the busy road, the front gates, even the forest that surrounds the paved cobblestones on either side. He grew up here, he should know.

Dean watches as Castiel follows the road into the village, taking care around the heavily-laden carts and highly-strung horses. The scene seems normal, nothing out of place - until a laughing child slips through the crowd and, without looking, steps directly into the path of a wagon traveling in the opposite direction.

Quicker than any human should be able to react, Dean sees Castiel’s hand reach out to grab the back of the child’s cloak. He pulls them out of the way just in time, and the wagon rumbles past, leaving the child untouched.

When the child turns to look up at Castiel with wide, scared eyes, brimming with tears, Dean feels Castiel’s heart stop, the dragon overcome with such emotion that Dean isn’t even sure how they’re still breathing. It’s like being touched by the Gift, except amplified more times than he can imagine. They remain frozen in place while the little boy stares up at Castiel.

His eyes are so vividly green, and Dean knows without a doubt that he’s looking at himself.

Castiel releases his grip on younger Dean’s cloak, shock still resonating through him. Lip wobbling, the freckled boy turns and disappears into the crowd, and the scene dissolves.

This time, when Dean blinks again, Castiel has positioned himself somewhere higher up. There are scaly blue paws clinging to the branch that he’s perched on - right now, they’re a dragon. Dean’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Cas _is_ a dragon, let alone dealing with the weirdness of seeing the world from a dragon’s point of view.

Again, though, that’s not the most important aspect of the scene that he’s found himself in.

Castiel is watching the edge of the river, where a slightly older Dean is sitting, his knees tucked up to his chest. He’s taller now, his features less childlike, though he still hasn’t hit the growth spurt that broadened his shoulders and filled out his muscles.

Dean is guessing that that won’t come for a little while, because he remembers this moment, and part of him hates that Castiel had intruded on something so private.

Even from here, with Castiel’s keen eyesight, he can see the shake in his own shoulders. Younger Dean twists and flicks his wrist, trying over and over again with increasing amounts of frustration, to summon any kind of Gift, any sign. When it doesn’t come, he snatches a stone from the ground beside him and hurls it into the river, then wraps his arms around his legs and presses his face against his knees.

That had been the day that Dean resigned himself to the face that he wasn’t Gifted. He wasn’t like his mom, or like Sam. He never would be. Pain sits heavily in Castiel’s chest, an almost-perfect reflection of how Dean had felt at the time, hopeless and heartbroken.

The scene dissolves once again, and surely that’s the worst that Castiel has to show him.

He’s wrong.

This time, the air smells of smoke. Castiel knows that he needs to move quickly - he can’t be caught here, it’s too soon, both for the bond and for him to have any kind of chance with Dean in the future.

He aches with his own failure, with the knowledge that although the bandits who killed John and Mary Winchester lie dead by the roadside, eviscerated by teeth and claws, he was too late to save his mate’s parents.

The scent of smoke is a heavy reminder that he has failed Dean - but he can still try to make amends in other ways, in any possible way that he can.

This sword is his most priceless, forged many centuries ago with the best steel to be found anywhere on the continent. He hates giving it up, but he will do anything for Dean.

He’s losing himself too far in Castiel’s emotions and thoughts, Dean realises. He tries to distance himself, but the more he pulls away, the more _wrong_ it feels. Without really thinking about it, he settles back into the memory, too distracted by the scene before him. Castiel is sneaking into their cottage through the back door, creeping into the room that had belonged to his parents. Quietly, so quietly, he opens the heavy chest at the end of his parents’ bed and places the sword gently inside.

Dean remembers that sword. He’d assumed it was a family heirloom. It had paid for their food and lodging a thousand times over when they’d reached the city, but he’d never known that he had Castiel to thank for that.

The pyres continue to burn outside. Dean catches a glimpse of his own silhouette, with Sam beside him, both of them outlined in the roaring flames, before the memory disappears once again like smoke dissipating in the air.

Too fast for him to properly see, more memories flicker before Dean’s eyes. Castiel may not have been by Dean’s side for every step of Dean’s journey, but he was there often enough - how does he not remember any of this?

All of a sudden, the flashing memories still. A sense of anticipation washes over Dean, as well as his own surprise when he recognises the autumn foliage of the trees lining the marketplace square. It’s getting late – the sun is setting, washing the marketplace with golden hues. Castiel’s strides are relaxed but purposeful as he crosses the marketplace square with a goal in mind.

It’s weird to see himself like this, through someone else’s eyes. Dean is sitting at his stall, twisting his offcut wires into shapes. Castiel watches him for several long moments before he approaches – nervousness mingles with the anticipation, now, and it’s kind of endearing to feel as he watches their first interaction through Castiel’s eyes.

Apart from the gentle buzz, nothing feels out of the ordinary.

Then, just as Cas is setting down the items he wants to buy, his gaze falls on the small blue dragon that he had bought – the wire dragon that, he knows, is the spitting image of Cas himself. Time seems to slow down, and that magical resonation that Castiel had felt when he’d first met Dean as a small boy all those years ago returns. It’s even stronger than it was the first time, and it sends Dean reeling.

The next thing he knows, he’s back in the cave, kneeling beside Cas again.

Slowly, Castiel’s hand falls away from his forehead. He looks nervous, his blue eyes still wide, and a tiny line creasing his brows.

Dean, however, is simply speechless.

Cas has been by his side throughout his entire life, even if Dean wasn’t aware of it. He’d _known_ that Dean was his mate, but he’d kept his distance, and allowed Dean to grow and mature independently to, one day, make his own decision.

He can’t properly process what he’s just seen, and his mouth hangs open for a few seconds before he remembers how to speak. “What the… what the fuck, Cas? You were there, how do I not…”

Castiel cuts him off, his voice soft.

“You don’t remember,” he explains, “because your mind was protecting you until you became old enough to grasp the depth of the bond between us.” This time, when he moves to sit up, Dean lets him. His hand slides down the length of Cas’s bare chest, and grazes over the hem of the plain brown pants covering his modesty before Dean snatches his hand away, his cheeks warm. The corner of Castiel’s mouth ticks up into a small, amused smile before he continues.

“It augmented your memories so that I am removed from them. When you became of age, your mind began to slowly adjust, showing you snippets in your subconscious. Dreams, random thoughts… the dragon you created was the result of your mind maturing enough to accept a possible bond. Now that you’re older, the touch of our magic, _properly_ , will allow the bond to solidify… If you wish it.”

The dreams, the niggling thoughts buried just under his subconscious, the _itch_ he’d felt as he’d brought the wire dragon to life – that was all the… the _bond_. His bond with Cas, linking them together magically.

Soulmates.

If Dean ‘wishes it’.

Now he understands why Cas looks worried, nervous, why he was hesitant to tell Dean straight out and instead spent so much time first watching over him, and then developing a friendship.

The bond may be half there, but it’s definitely not fully realized yet, not by a long shot.

And it would be so, _so_ easy for Dean to say no. Living the rest of his life with a… a dragon? It’s crazy.

But it’s _Cas_.

He swallows, and settles into a more comfortable sitting position – though he’s still close enough to Cas that he can feel the dragon’s body heat radiating outwards. For a second, he’s distracted by the glimmer of the scales across Castiel’s cheekbones, and the blue glow of his eyes.

There’s so much more to Castiel than he’s ever known, and more yet that he _still_ doesn’t know. And he needs to.

“What happens if I do, and what are the repercussions if I don’t?”

Castiel’s gaze drops to his hands where they rest in his lap, and he rubs the pad of his thumb over the scales on the back of his other hand in a nervous gesture that Dean has seen him do many times before. A few long moments pass before he speaks, but Dean doesn’t mind waiting – this is a heavy conversation, and he lets Cas gather his thoughts.

“If you accept the bond, you’ll live a slightly longer life. You’ll share in my magic, my thoughts and emotions, and I will do the same. If you reject the bond…”

He trails off, but Dean can read the answer in the evasiveness of his blue gaze and the downward tilt of his mouth.

Whatever the repercussions would be, they aren’t good. Dean doesn’t really want to know, his stomach churning uneasily, and Castiel makes no move to tell him. He’s kept away from Dean for this long, not wanting to influence his thoughts or decisions, and even now he’s not attempting to guilt Dean into making a choice.

Cas would _never_ force Dean into a decision like that. Even now, he sits in silence, waiting for Dean to speak and avoiding his eyes.

This is _Cas_ , the Cas he’d invited into his stall, opened up to, given his little blue dragon to.

This is the Cas that he fell in love with, so many weeks ago. It only hits him now, _properly_ , a scorch of flame that warms him and lights him up from the inside.

He’s in love with Cas.

“ _Cas_ ,” he breathes, and Castiel’s gaze rises uncertainly. His brows only furrow when Dean grins at him, bright and breathless. The scales on the back of his hands feel warm when Dean reaches for them and holds them tight. “Dean?” he asks, and there’s the faintest glimmer of hope colouring his voice.

Dean takes a deep, steadying breath.

“I… I don’t know what the hell this all means, but I do know that I missed you like fucking crazy when you left, and the prospect of living the rest of my life without you in it sounds like hell, and I… I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.”

Castiel’s eyes go wide, and his mouth drops open slightly as the fire beside them roars to life and rises up several feet in height. But Dean isn’t done yet.

“I would be honoured to be your soulmate and accept the bond, Cas,” he whispers into the space between them, and then Castiel’s lips are pressing against his and stealing his breath away and goddamn, kissing Cas is so much better when neither of them are on death’s door.

When they finally break apart for air, Castiel’s blue eyes are brimming with barely contained emotion, and one of his hands curves against Dean’s bare shoulder as if he’s scared that Dean will change his mind and disappear. Dean cups Cas’s cheek with one hand, giving him a reassuring smile as he traces the scales on his cheekbone with his thumb. “You’re sure?” Cas murmurs quietly, and when Dean nods, his grin is more brilliant and blinding than any precious metal or jewel that Dean has ever seen.

Cas’s hand slides down from the top of Dean’s shoulder to the side, and he grips the top of Dean’s bicep. His eyes glow faintly in the dimly lit cave, and Dean isn’t sure whether to watch the bright blue irises, or the movement of Cas’s lips as he murmurs words under his breath that Dean doesn’t understand.

Heat sears along his arm, radiating outwards from the place where Castiel’s palm is pressed against his skin, and Dean’s breath hitches in a gasp. It’s just shy of painful, though it grows in intensity the longer Cas speaks.

It gets hotter and hotter until Castiel utters the last word with finality and brushes the thumb of his other hand across the middle of Dean’s forehead.

Dean’s mind shatters.

Or, at least, it feels as though it does.

Every piece of him is fracturing with the intensity of his experience, of Castiel’s thoughts and memories and emotions as they flood Dean’s brain. Longing and desire and hope and exhilaration. Dean feels all of it, and all of it is Cas’s. It’s overwhelming, it’s too much, it’s…

It’s completion, in a way he never knew he was missing until now.

Dean doesn’t realize that he’s saying Cas’s name, over and over again, until Castiel seals their mouths together with a harsh kiss. It’s infinitely more intense now, now that he’s sharing a piece of Cas inside his own mind, and Dean’s hand shoots out to brace against Castiel’s chest.

Cas gasps into his mouth and goes completely still for a second as Dean’s palm presses against his skin. Dean should be concerned, but all he can feel through their newly-fledged and not-at-all restrained bond is pure, overwhelming love and desire and intensity.

The next thing he knows, Cas is climbing into Dean’s lap, threading his hands through Dean’s hair and sliding his tongue into Dean’s mouth, and fuck, he can really get on board with this.

Everything is more amplified like this, with the new bond thrown wide open, each one of their feelings and emotions ricocheting back and forth until Dean can hardly think with the strength of it, and Cas is writhing, grinding against Dean’s stomach.

“Cas,” Dean groans, and he feels Cas’s responding lust like a physical wave. “ _Fuck_.”

From then on, it’s a mess of fumbling hands and desperate kisses, want and need rebounding back and forth between them. Dean tangles his hands in Cas’s hair and kisses him for all he’s worth, while the dragon busies himself with fumbling at the waistbands of their pants.

When Cas gets a hand around them both and strokes, Dean feels as though he might shatter apart with the magnitude of everything inside his mind right now. He cries out against Cas’s lips and presses their foreheads together, and when he looks up at Cas – his _mate_ – those blue eyes reflect every single emotion inside Dean’s own head.

Cas’s thumb swipes over the head of Dean’s erection and he swears, while Castiel utters a syllable under his breath that Dean doesn’t understand. He says it again, with more emphasis this time, when Dean grazes his teeth over the underside of his jaw – it must be some kind of curse in Cas’s native tongue.

He resolves to see how many times he can make Cas swear as he places his hand over Cas’s and they stroke themselves in tandem. With the strength of the bond, though, there’s no way either of them were ever going to last. Castiel comes first, spilling over their linked hands with a punched-out gasp of Dean’s name, and Dean is helpless to do anything but follow, completely swept away as Cas’s orgasm crashes over them both.

The only sounds to be heard in the cave are their ragged panting and the quiet crackle of the flames illuminating the cavern. They’d flared up to the ceiling when Cas had come, but now they’re flickering sedately again, calm and quiet as Cas catches his breath. Dean lifts his hand wearily and drags it through Cas’s sweat-damp hair, avoiding his small horns.

Holy _shit_.

He can feel Castiel’s amusement resonate through his own soul, and it’s the weirdest damn thing, but Dean forgets about it when his mate leans back a little and gives him a wide, bright, lazy smile.

And then Dean’s gaze flicks down to his chest, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

There, in the centre of all that bare, tanned skin, directly over Cas’s heart, there’s a handprint.

 _Dean’s_ handprint.

Thanks to the newly-fledged bond, Cas feels and pre-empts his panic before Dean himself is fully aware of it, and pushes reassurance through their connection. “It’s okay, Dean,” he murmurs, pressing a soft, lazy kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. “It’s part of the bond.” He can almost _feel_ the dragon preening proudly when he says, “I am happy to wear your mark, as I am happy to see my own on your skin.”

Dean’s brain skids to a halt, and when Castiel looks back up at him, his eyes are wide. Gingerly, he reaches out to touch the top of Dean’s bicep. “I didn’t… Is it… Should I have told you before…” He’s starting to freak out, Dean can feel it, and he hates it. He folds his hand gently over Castiel’s about to reassure him that whatever mark he’s been given, it’s okay – and then he catches sight of it.

A handprint on his shoulder, red against his freckled skin and a partner to the one in the centre of Cas’s chest. He knows without looking that it’s the exact shape of Cas’s hand.

It’s a piece of Cas, a piece of his mate to be carried on his skin for the rest of his life, along with the scale he wears at his throat.

When Dean cups the back of Castiel’s head and pulls him in for a long, slow kiss, the panic in the bond subsides and it’s replaced with contentment and the purest joy that Dean has ever experienced.

They kiss until Dean starts to get cold and a little sticky. He’s still not used to Castiel using his magic – the ass _laughs_ at the way Dean shrieks when blue-orange fire flickers over the drying come on their skin, but again, it doesn’t hurt him, and it does a pretty damn good clean-up job.

Dean retaliates once Castiel has pulled a yard of woven cloth from his hoard for them to lie on, his fingers tickling over the dragon’s sides as Cas laughs and tries to writhe away. It ends with Cas successfully pinning both of Dean’s hands to the ground beside his head, and his mate blows a small, grumpy tendril of fire in Dean’s direction. This time, Dean still flinches, but he pokes his tongue out as Cas. “You’re an ass,” he tells Cas.

Before Castiel has time to retort, his brows pulled into a quizzical frown, they’re interrupted by a shriek. Dean glances up just in time to see the image of Sam, projected into the air beside them, cover his eyes.

“What the _fuck_ , Dean? You don’t come home, and I freak out, and it turns out you’re just…” He makes a strangled sound of disgust, and then Dean sees him slit his fingers and peek at them with one eye. “Wait. Is that Cas? Does he have… _horns_?”

Dean holds up a hand to silence his brother, grinning, while Cas smiles and waves at the projection of Sam. “It’s a long story,” Dean says. “I’ll tell you later. And this is payback for getting in the way last time,” he teases. Sam is spluttering out a protest when Dean swipes his hand through the image, and it dissipates.

“Poor Sam,” Cas observes, blinking up at the air where Sam’s face was moments prior. “But on the other hand, considering he kept me from kissing you before I had to leave to hibernate, I don’t hold that much sympathy for him.”

“Me neither,” Dean laughs, pulling Cas down onto their makeshift bed and curling up close. What could have happened, what should have happened – none of that matters now. He has Cas back, alive and well, and even better, he has Cas as his _mate_. It’s still going to take some getting used to, but fuck, he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

From the top of Castiel’s hoard, bathed in the light of the low-flickering fire, the small, wire-made dragon watches over them serenely with sapphire-made eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, please leave a kudos and a comment, it would mean the world to me! You can find me on tumblr [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com), and if you'd like to be notified when I post more works, subscribe to me [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo)!


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